


At The Beginning With You

by JET_Playin



Category: Anastasia (1997), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anastasia AU, Angst, Background Wolfstar, Canonical Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Getting Together, M/M, Memory Loss, Unresolved Sexual Tension, background Ronmione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 03:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21092810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin
Summary: There was a time, not so long ago, when we lived in peace. The year was 1988 and my husband, Lucius, was a respected war hero. We were celebrating the fifth anniversary of the fall of Lord Voldemort and, that night, no star burned brighter than that of my sweet Draco, our darling son. Lucius, fearful of vengeful Death Eaters, arranged for us to depart for Paris shortly after the ball but Draco begged to stay. So, I had a special gift made for him, to make the transition easier, for both of us.





	At The Beginning With You

**Author's Note:**

> This is soooooooooo late, and I'm sorry. After two years in the making, I present to you my Anastasia AU!!!! I know so many people have been anxiously awaiting this fic, but Iseemyotpinerised is the one who birthed this monster so long ago. Here you go, my friend! I sincerely hope you enjoy it :) 
> 
> Many thanks to all of my cheerleaders, and special thanks to bloodyflammable, maesterchill, and sugaredsundrop, who were the very best beta's anyone could ask for. This fic wouldn't be here without a single one of you <3

_ There was a time, not so long ago, when we lived in peace. The year was 1988 and my husband, Lucius, was a respected war hero. We were celebrating the fifth anniversary of the fall of Lord Voldemort and, that night, no star burned brighter than that of my sweet Draco, our darling son. Lucius, fearful of vengeful Death Eaters, arranged for us to depart for Paris shortly after the ball but Draco begged to stay. So, I had a special gift made for him, to make the transition easier, for both of us. _

Grinning, Draco Malfoy scanned the ballroom, eyes widening as he took in the extravagant decorations. Miles of emerald satin hung from the high, domed ceiling to sweep the polished marble floor. Above the guests, fairy lights, carried by actual faeries, cast a soft glow. Tables were piled high with gleaming platters and house-elves flitted around in clean pillowcases and tea towel togas. Everywhere he looked, people were milling about, shining in flowing, jewel-toned dress robes, eating and laughing and dancing. No matter how many times he saw it, the parties his parents threw always amazed him.

It wasn't the first he'd attended in his short eight years; this event, in particular, was an annual celebration. Draco had heard stories of the Malfoys’ role in the war that ended when he was but three years old. His father, Lucius Malfoy, had been a Death Eater and the Dark Lord Voldemort's right-hand man. He wasn't sure of the details, but some said that Voldemort had lost his mind, planning an attack on a baby and Lucius had switched sides. He refused to take part in the murder of an innocent child, even a half-blood child. So, he'd denounced the Dark Lord and joined The Order of the Phoenix where he, and Draco's mother Narcissa Malfoy, helped bring about the madman’s downfall.

But that was ages ago, and far from his mind that evening. From his seat at the head of the magnificent room, Draco searched the crowd for the boy with sloppy clothes and wild hair. Harry Potter came every year; it was the only time Draco got to see him. He was, apparently, the boy Voldemort had planned to kill. Draco couldn't see why, though. Harry was dorky, sure, but he was nice enough, and wicked funny. Aside from Blaise, Harry was his best friend.

Finally spotting the dark hair and disheveled robes, Draco jumped to his feet. “He's here!” he cried, turning to find his mother smiling at him. “Harry's here, mother! May I go say ‘hello?’”

“Of course, darling. Draco, decorum!” she hissed, scandalised when he darted away before she finished speaking, nearly barrelling into the Minister of Magic.

“Harry!” Draco skidded to a halt in front of the grinning boy.

“Whoa, son, careful there!”

He glanced up into the warm brown eyes of James Potter. “I'm sorry Mr. Potter. I got carried away.”

Mr. Potter just smiled and ruffled Draco's carefully slicked hair. “No harm done.”

“Come on!” Harry tugged at his sleeve, pulling him back through the crowd. “Bye mum, bye dad!” he shouted over his shoulder and Draco waved before following.

“Where are we going, Harry?”

“To get food, I'm starved! Mum and Dad said I had to wait till we got here.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but followed, chattering away about everything that had happened since last year's ball: Pansy’s new kneazle was wreaking havoc on the Parkinson household, Vince and Greg still couldn’t tie their shoes, and Blaise had gotten a Cleansweep Seven from his mother’s new husband. Harry, in turn, told him of the youngest Weasley’s infatuation, complaining that she followed him everywhere whenever he visited the Burrow. He went on for quite a while about the second oldest, Charlie, who was planning to work with dragons after Hogwarts. Draco promptly decided that was what he wanted to do, too.

After a while, when they'd eaten their fill—and then some—Draco pulled Harry out into the crowd. He'd been hoping for a chance to dance. Mother insisted he learn so he'd been taking lessons since Christmas. He wanted to show Harry what he'd learned.

“Ugh, Draco, what are you doing?” Harry whined, holding his stomach and shuffling along.

“We are dancing.” Draco spun around when they reached the center of the ballroom, oblivious to the amused smiles and soft chuckling of the other dancers. He placed one hand on Harry's waist, taking his other and ignoring the way he tried to pull away. “You put your hand on my shoulder.”

Harry's eyes swivelled around the other couples before complying, tentatively. “Why do I have to be the girl?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“You're not a girl,” Draco scoffed. “Do you know how to dance?”

“N-no?”

“Then I'm leading. Now, when I move my foot forward, you move yours back—no, Potter, your other foo— ow! Careful, you oaf!”

“Draco, I don't know— maybe you could show me— ow, don't squeeze so hard!” Harry twisted his hand until Draco released it, then stepped back. “Why don't you show me  _ first _ ?”

Rolling his eyes again, Draco lifted both arms to mime holding a dance partner. “Watch my feet,” he ordered, then began to spin in a loose box step, counting pointedly. “One, two, three. One, two, three. See? It's easy.”

He stopped when he got to Harry, his head still spinning around the floor, and stumbled. Caught up in Harry's arms, Draco stared at him for a moment. His eyes were laughing and his lips looked about ready to follow. Draco scowled as he straightened.

“I guess we don't have to…”

Then Harry did laugh, but it didn’t sound mean, so Draco smiled a little, in return. “Dancing is for girls, Draco!”

“So? It's fun!” he insisted.

“Okay, okay. Let's try again.” He stepped forward, clapping one hand on Draco's shoulder and leaving it there before taking his hand with the other. He smiled when Draco took a deep breath and brought his own hand back to Harry's waist.

Before long, both boys were laughing, all legitimate attempts at dancing dissolved into a mad dash to stomp the other's foot without getting stomped in return. It was okay, Draco thought as he used Harry's shoulders for balance, his upper body bowed so he could see his feet. It didn't matter what they were doing, he always had fun with Harry.

“Draco.”

He straightened, narrowly missing smashing his head into Harry's. Stepping away, he looked up into his father’s stern face. “Hello, father.”

Lucius nodded. “I trust you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Potter?” he asked, turning to Harry with a hard look in his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded emphatically.

“Glad to hear it. Son, your mother wishes to speak with you.”

“Yes, Father. I'll be right back, Harry.” Draco turned and set off through the guests, his shoulders straight and his chin up. When he was reasonably certain his father could no longer see him, he broke into a run. He swerved around a large man wearing a set of robes in violent orange and ducked under the arm of a young woman as her dance partner swung her away from himself. Just before he reached the wall of guests that circled the dance floor, he paused to straighten his robes, proudly striding the remaining distance to his mother’s side.

Narcissa was smirking when he reached her. “Draco. I’m glad you could remove yourself from Mr. Potter’s side long enough to speak with your mother.” Her pale eyes twinkled and Draco expelled his breath in a rush, slumping his shoulders in exasperation.

“Mum,” he whinged, and she laughed, a light, airy sound that he rarely heard. Draco smiled at her.

“I merely wish to give you a gift, son,” she sniffed. “If you’d rather—”

“A gift? No, no, I’ll stay!” Excitement palpable, he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Harry can wait! What is it?”

Laughing again, Narcissa reached into the fold of her dove grey dress robes, withdrawing a small box.

“Now, this won’t fit you just yet. I hope you will take good care of it, until it does.” A warning look settled over her face and Draco nodded, contrite.

Seemingly satisfied, she smiled and opened the box. Slowly, she drew a long, silver chain from within. The links seemed sturdy, obviously well made, but Draco’s eyes fell immediately to the ring hanging heavily in place of a pendant.

“It’s a dragon!”

“What else for my little dragon?” Narcissa chuckled. “You recall the conversation we had about Paris?” Draco nodded, gaze following the gentle sway of the chain. “Your father and I discussed the matter. We have decided— Draco, are you listening?”

He snapped his gaze back to hers. “Yes, Mother,” he nodded, again. “You and Father spoke about moving to Paris. We’re going, then?”

Her smile softened and, opening the chain, she removed the ring. “Yes, Draco. We will leave tomorrow. Dobby is packing our travelling cases and will send the rest after we’ve gone.

“But this,” she said, returning her attention to the ring in her hand. “This is a very special ring. The dragon is consuming itself, you see? This symbol is called ouroboros. it represents eternity.” With a twist of her fingers, Narcissa split the ring in two, laughing when Draco's eyes widened in dismay. “With this,” she went on, returning one half of the ring to the chain. “You and I will be together always, no matter where.”

Beaming, Draco flung himself into his mother’s arms. He would be happy anywhere, of course, but his mother was so much happier in Paris. He couldn’t stand when her smiles suddenly, and quite without warning, slipped. The colour would drain from her face and her eyes always took on a frightened gleam.

Like it was now, he thought. The door at the other end of the ballroom slammed open, startling him and he jerked out of the embrace. He tried to turn, to follow her stare, but she held him steady with a frantic shake of her head. Slipping the chain over his head, she took his hand and led him around their chairs to slip behind curtains hanging there.

“Mother, what’s happening?” he asked at the sound of twisted laughter, of the cackling voice calling her name. But she pressed a finger to her lips and he fell silent, jolting when his father’s voice echoed through the room beyond.

-

_ You see, we were too late. My eldest sister, the most zealous of Voldemort's followers, was beside herself when he fell. She vowed revenge and came to deliver, certain her success heralded the return of the Dark Lord. _

Grinning, Harry watched Draco bound away. Dancing? he mused with a shake of his head. Draco was silly. Still, it had been fun, though he doubted they’d really danced much. They only saw each other once a year, so they always spent the entire Annual Celebration Ball together. Draco had his friends, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, and Harry had the Weasleys. But they saw them all the time. The ball was just for the two of them.

“Do I need to ask your intentions, young man?” Lucius asked and Harry tensed. Lucius Malfoy scared him. He was so stiff, so rigid. Inevitably, Harry felt like he’d been caught misbehaving every time the man spoke to him.

“Intentions, sir?” he asked, squaring his shoulders to keep from cowering.

“Yes. What do you hope to come from your relatio—?”

“Wotcher, Harry!”

Relieved, Harry spun around, nearly crashing into his godfather before Sirius steadied him. “Sirius, Remus!” Harry smiled, casting his eyes nervously to Mr. Malfoy before throwing his arms around his parent’s oldest friends.

“Where's your other half, squirt?” Sirius teased, smirking at Lucius and dropping a hand on Harry's head.

Remus rolled his eyes and Mr. Malfoy flinched, but Harry giggled. Sirius always teased him for hanging around Draco; he was used to it. “He's over with his mum.” He nodded in their direction, then jumped.

The massive doors leading into the ballroom of Malfoy Manor crashed open and a hush fell over the guests and servers gathered within. A high-pitched shriek of laughter echoed around the cavernous room, bouncing off marble floors and glass window panes. Harry craned his neck to see who had entered.

At the top of the double staircase, swathed in a sphere of shimmering light, stood a woman. Dressed in tattered black dress robes, hems and sleeves torn, she was the thing of nightmares. Dark, matted curls fell in greasy clumps over a sallow face that stretched wide in manic grin. Weaving drunkenly, she made her way down the stairs and through the ballroom. Most of the guests backed away nervously, but some leapt forward. Wands drawn, they watched her progression, braced for any reason to start casting.

“‘Cissa!” the woman screeched, her voice creaking. “Traitorous little sister.”

“Bellatrix!” Lucius Malfoy barked, striding toward the path forming in the sea of people. “You are not welcome here! Leave now!”

“Lucius,” Bellatrix giggled at his command, bending double and clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh, Lucius, Lucius, Lucius.  _ Crucio _ !” she sneered, back suddenly ramrod straight, her wand arm an arc above her head.

Lucius fell to the floor, screaming and writhing, and the room burst into life around him. Several guests leaped forward, wands drawn—many of those attending were Order members and Aurors and seemed to know how to react. The majority, though, were untested socialites and pudgy politicians whose panicked actions did nothing to help the situation. From the shadows, tall figures were pouring into the room. Long, black robes swept the floor and white masks hid their expressions, if not their words. The curses echoed around the ballroom, many Harry had never heard, to the sounds of screams and pounding feet.

“Squeal, blood-traitor pig!” Bellatrix spat, twirling her wand maliciously.

“ _ Stupefy _ !”

Harry froze. “Dad?” he cried, launching forward only to be halted by Sirius’ arm across his chest.

Bellatrix dodged, ducking low to the ground and swiveling around to jab her wand at James. “ _ Avada Kedavra _ !”

“James!” Lily Potter shouted even as he spun away, the curse whirling past him. “Sirius!” she called, glancing desperately over her shoulder. “Remus! Go! Get Harry out of here!”

Harry flailed when Sirius snatched him up. “No!” he cried. “No, Sirius, put me down! What about Mum and Dad? What about Draco?” He wriggled and twisted until Sirius dropped him, and then he was off, after a momentary deliberation. His parents fought in the war, they could handle this, so he ran the other way, looking for Draco.

“Harry, no!” Remus called.

A glance over his shoulder told him they were a pace behind him, but Harry didn't care. He had to get to Draco. Speeding ahead until he reached the raised platform the Malfoys’ throne-like chairs occupied, he spun, looking around frantically. A glimmer from the foot of Narcissa’s chair caught his eye and he bent to retrieve it. A ring? Clutching it tightly in his fist, he looked around, again.

“Draco!”

“Harry?” came the startled reply from the satin hangings behind the chairs. Harry rushed forward, ducking behind the curtain. “No, Harry! What are you doing? Get out of here!”

Narcissa dropped a hand to her son's thin shoulder but peered through the darkness at Harry. “Harry, you have to go,” she whispered, urgently.

“Harry!” Sirius called, echoed immediately by Remus. “Harry, where are you?”

“No!” Harry shook his head. “Not without you!”

“Harry!” Remus froze when he pulled the cloth back and saw the terrified faces of Draco and Narcissa as well as Harry, but recovered quickly. “Come on, all of you! We need to leave.”

“Lucius?” Narcissa asked, colour draining from her already pale face. Remus lowered his eyes but Sirius answered:

“I'm sorry, Narcissa, I am, but we don't have time.

She nodded. “You’re right.” Pushing past Remus, she herded the boys with her.

Sirius and Remus erected a shield around them and they picked their way through the mass of terrified guests and cackling Death Eaters. They skirted the room as best they could, avoiding the bulk of the fray and the flashes of red and green streaking back and forth across the room. Halfway to the door, a body fell into their path and Draco sobbed, turning his head into his mother’s robes. Harry took his hand, his eyes locked on the wide-eyed stare of the corpse on the floor, and squeezed. Draco squeezed back, but didn’t turn from his mother’s robes.

“Narcissa!” Bellatrix screamed, lifting her skirts to chase after them. “Get back here! You will pay for your betrayal! The Dark Lord  _ will _ rise again!”

Putting on a burst of speed, the little group pushed through the crowd jamming the western doorway and broke into a run, through a dimly lit corridor, around the grand staircase, and through the front door. Sirius guided them to the gates at the end of the long drive, gesturing as he ran.

“Remus, my bike!”

“We won’t all fit, Sirius!”

“Take the children, cousin!” Narcissa cried. “Get them out. You can carry them!”

A bolt of green crashed into the ground a foot from the bike and everyone jumped. Draco’s hand was jerked from Harry’s as he ducked.

“Little ‘Cissa,” Bellatrix sing-songed maniacally and another bolt struck the ground as she stumbled toward them. “Where are you going? Don’t you want to see our Lord’s glorious return, little sister?”

“We have to Apparate! It’s the only way!”

“Your wards won’t let us through!” Sirius shouted.

“She doesn’t want us, Pads,” Remus reasoned. “We’ll take the bike. Narcissa, get your son out of here!”

Jerking a nod, Narcissa grasped Draco by the arm, spun on her heel, and Disapparated.

“Draco!” Harry bellowed as his godfather lifted him into the air and jumped onto his motorcycle. Remus was a step behind and then they were off, rising into the night sky while curses whizzed past them. In the courtyard below, Bellatrix Lestrange howled her fury into the atmosphere.

_ Many of the Death Eaters who attacked, that night, were apprehended or killed, but the damage was done; my focus was compromised and my son was forfeit, splinched as we escaped the Manor. I never saw my darling boy again… _

Chapter One

“Harry!” Narcissa burst through the doorway of the Hog’s Head, drawing the attention of half the pub as well as Harry. “Oh, Harry, there you are!”

“Hullo, Mrs. Malfoy,” Ron said, standing to greet her when she rushed forward. She ignored him.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath and meet her eyes. “Hello, Narcissa.” He lifted his face when she bent to press a kiss on each cheek before sinking into the chair opposite him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving for Paris.” He glanced at Ron apologetically when he lowered himself back into his chair.

“I was. I was just on my way when one of my contacts brought this to me. I had to come and see you. Harry, this is his,” she hissed, sliding a bundle of material across the worn wooden table. “They're still scavenging the Manor!”

Harry studied the bundle; a rough cord held it together, stretching the weave in some places, bunching it in others. The material was expensive and Harry felt a little tick of annoyance that anyone would treat such fine cloth this way. Pulling on the cord, he jolted when the bundle released immediately, the sleek material sliding to puddle at his feet. He bent to retrieve it, shooting a glare at Ron when he chuckled. It was a cloak, he realised as he held it aloft. That was it, just a small, expensive, blue cloak. Harry stared, his jaw flexing.

“I'm sure Draco’s out there, Harry, but I've had to ask Hermione to screen the people claiming to be him. They're getting insistent and there are so many of them! I don't know how much longer I can—-”

Harry shook himself, the cloak halfway to his face. Would it smell like him? Would he even remember how Draco smelled? Had he ever known to begin with? He shook himself again, cleared his throat. “Narcissa. I think—- I think it's time to end this.”

“We’ll find him, Harry.”

“No,” he insisted. Taking a bracing breath, he locked his gaze on hers. “We won’t. Draco is gone. Even if he survived the splinching, he likely ended up in the middle of nowhere. He was a child Narcissa, he couldn’t survive on his own. He’s go—-” Harry choked, paused. He tried again, lowering his head, unable to face the hurt in the old woman's eyes. “He’s gone.”

“Harry, I—” Abruptly, she rose, leaning toward him with her hands flat on the table. “You can hide away with your pack in Hogwarts, but I will not give up on my son. I'm raising the reward to twenty thousand gallons.” With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the Hog’s Head, oblivious to the stares that followed her out.

“Harry, maybe Narcissa—”

“Narcissa is an old fool whose guilt won’t let her rest.”

“She's also a mother who lost her son. Don't you think that was a bit harsh?”

“Maybe it was, Ron, but she's not the only one who lost him,” Harry snapped, jerking around to glare at him.

Ron sighed. “I know, but... are you sure, mate? That you want to stop looking…?”

“I am.” Shuffling his notes, Harry glanced around. “Where’s Padfoot got to?”

“Dunno. I’m sure he’s about,” Ron shrugged. “Probably sniffing around Remus…”

“Right. Well then, we’d better get back to Hogwarts, let them know we're officially calling off the search.” As he rose, the cloak slipped from the table to pool on the floor again. With a snarl of disgust at his own weakness, he retrieved it before stalking out of the pub and back toward the castle.

-

“Draven! Get a move on, I haven’t got all day!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Draven muttered before turning a bright smile to the children gathered at the gates of the St. Margaret's Home for Orphaned Boys. “I mean it, now. You are to be on your absolute worst behaviour. Give ‘em hell, boys.”

“Draven!”

“I’m coming, madam!” he called, aiming one last wink at the laughing boys. Gathering his rucksack, Draven turned and followed the old matron to the beat-up lorry parked at the end of the drive. He tossed the sack to the floorboard and climbed in.

“I don’t know where you get off. All these years I’ve taken care of you and how do you repay me? By acting like the ruddy king of England!” the cranky old woman ranted. With a disconcerting sputter, she pulled the lorry out of the drive and turned it onto the main road.

“Yes, ma’am. You’re absolutely right, ma’am.” Draven heaved a sigh, the fingers of his left hand moving instinctively to the ring that hung from a chain around his neck. “Who knows, maybe I am the ruddy king of England,” he muttered.

“Bah! Don’t count on it!” She glared across the cab at him. “Sit up straight. Stop fiddling with that stupid ring.”

Draven obeyed, but scowled at her. “It isn’t stupid. It’s the only clue I have to my pas—”

“Oh, and don’t I know it. ‘In Paris?’ Ha! That’ll be the day.”

Deflating, he slumped in his seat, again. He knew it wasn’t much, but the ring was all he had. The slim band of pewter had been his lifeline through much of his childhood. The shape was simple, the detail intricate; a dragon's body curved to form the band, scales etched into the metal. Its head nestled on a flat circle base on one side and a wrinkled, fin-like wing lay folded on the other. One edge was trimmed in a jagged crisscross of jutting tips he assumed were spikes, as if the dragon had once been whole but was since broken in half, right down the middle. On the underside, an incomplete inscription read: ... à Paris.

... in Paris. That was a long way from Nowhere, England, but wasn't everything?

They passed the rest of the trip in silence, the rolling countryside flying by, and Draven let his mind wander to the first memory he had. At eight years old, he’d awoken in a hospital, a bandage-wrapped gash across his chest, terrified and alone. He'd screamed to be taken home in French first, then English. Unfortunately, even with two languages at his disposal, he couldn’t explain where home was. When the doctors asked his name, all he could muster was “Dra” so they called him Draven. To this day, he had no knowledge of who he was or how he wound up in that hospital. The authorities took him to the orphanage and put out the word that he’d been found.

Only, no one had come looking for him. Ten long years, he waited and no one came.

Now, on his eighteenth birthday, he was no longer a ward of the state and, therefore, no longer had a home. The matron procured a position for him in a neighbouring town, a factory she said. The very idea incensed him, but what choice did he have?

“Here you are.” Without killing the engine, the matron let the lorry coast to a stop at a dilapidated sign, welcoming travellers to town. The name of the town was badly degraded, but it didn’t really matter. Tossing him a worn map, she fixed him with a stern look. “It’s time to grow up, Draven. Do your job and leave any notions of ‘better’ where they belong.”

With that, Draven slid from the vehicle, collected his rucksack, and slammed the door behind him. After turning in a wide arc, the matron drove away, leaving Draven on the side of the road. He squared his shoulders, lifted his sack, and, letting out a breath in a rush, turned toward town. And stopped, again.

A fork? There hadn't been a fork in the road a moment before. And where had the sign gone? The left branch stretched, wide and neatly tended but trailed so far, he couldn't see where it led, anymore. The right path wound dangerously, dark and tangled, disappearing into dense forest after no more than a meter. To the left, was his future, he thought. His dismal, mediocre future. But, if he went right? Whoever gave him the necklace must have loved him...

“Oh, come on,” he groaned aloud. “What am I meant to do with this? I need a sign!”

He turned away, promptly dropping onto a small boulder between the two paths. His head in his hands, he took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. The sounds of the forest beat a pleasant tempo and he found himself relaxing a fraction.

Or, so he thought. Yet he jumped nearly out of his skin when a twig broke not a foot from him. Jerking his head up, Draven stared. There, head lowered, ears back, with a baleful expression in its smoky grey eyes, sat an enormous black dog.

“Where the devil did you come from?” he asked, eyes swivelling from one road to the other. The beast must have taken his question as forgiveness for startling him, because he lifted his rump off the ground and ambled forward, shoving his wet nose under Draven’s arm. “Oi! That's unnecessary,” he scolded, but he gave the silky ears a scratch and smirked. “I really don't have time for this, you know. Why don't you head home, boy? I'm sure somebody is missing you terribly.”

With a snuffly huff, the dog snapped up Draco's rucksack, gave a wag of his tail, and darted down the winding, right-hand road.

“Hey! Bring that back!” Leaping to his feet, he made to follow the mutt but stopped short when he reappeared. “Come now, give me my pack. I don't have time for this.” He stamped his foot and crossed his arms petulantly over his chest. “I'm waiting for a sign.”

The dog bounded back toward him, a glint in his eye almost like humour, before darting out of reach again. On the far side of the first bend, he stopped and stared at Draven. Draven's eyes widened. No, that was ridiculous.

“A dog?” he scoffed. “A stupid bloody dog? That's the sign?” He shook his head and marched toward the dog. He was losing the plot, surely. But the dog danced a manic circle and stopped to stare at him, again. Draven lifted a brow. “Fine,” he finally growled. “It's better than the alternative, anyway. But you'll drop my pack, this instant.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he bent to pick up the sack when the dog dropped it and slung it over his shoulder. He could take a hint, though, so he followed the absurd, snuffly creature down the right hand fork.

-

The sun rode high in the sky and Draven was growing apprehensive; they'd been walking for hours. Not for the first time, he considered the merits of turning around but didn't relish the idea of walking hours just to get back to where he started. The dog snuffled ahead of him, prancing nimbly through the underbrush and over little streams that cut through their path. Smug fucking bastard.

“Slow down, Snuffles. I need a break.”

He paused, his tail wagging hopefully, then continued down the path.

“That’s great,” Draven grumbled, stomping after the dog. “Stupid fucking dog thinks he knows better. Mangy, flea bitten, good-for-nothi— Damn it!” Flailing his arms to maintain his balance, Draven shot a glare at the dog. “What the hell, Snuffles?”

The mutt just stared at him, amusement twinkling in his unusual eyes, so like Draven’s. In the silence, an unexpected sound filtered through his irritation. Draven tilted his head, listening. From just beyond the tree line, a stiff summer breeze carried the sounds of civilization; the bustling chatter of villagers going about their daily lives, shouting over one another. He shifted a glance at the dog and glowered. Snuffles’ eyes were drifting lazily away from Draco, bushy eyebrows twitching in question, and his tongue lolled out of the side of his muzzle. Smug bastard.

“I will not apologise. It just so happens you are a stupid, mangy, flea bitten, good-for-nothi— oof!” By the time Draven lifted his body back up to a sitting position, Snuffles was trotting through the tree line and into the village, tail wagging innocently. In spite of himself, Draven was laughing as he got to his feet. Okay, so the dog wasn’t stupid. The rest, though…

Hitching the rucksack on his back, Draven squared his shoulders and forced his way through the trees. At least, he tried. Twigs and leaves caught in his hair, pulling it loose from the tail he wore and yanking painfully. Once he was past that, his foot caught on an exposed root and sent him stumbling into the road, hopping desperately for balance. Swinging one leg in a wide arc, he flung his arms out, pinwheeling them for a moment. When he was steady again, he ran his hands through his pale hair, exhaling through his nose, and took in the village.

A few villagers stared at him, confusion scrawled across their faces. He ignored them. As if they could judge; every last one of them was wearing long, brightly coloured robes and pointed hats, a man in tattered jeans and a faded tee shirt was the least odd thing on this street. 

The street itself wound, much as the road leading to it had, and boasted an assortment of old houses masquerading as store fronts. They had the oddest names… Madam Puddifoot's? Zonko’s? The Three Broomsticks? Honestly, who’d want to go to a pub named after cleaning equipment? Opting, instead, to try the other available drinking establishment, Draven headed for The Hog’s Head—only marginally better named—and eyed Snuffles warily when he found the dog already inside.

Deciding not to bother wondering, he made his way to the bar. He examined a grimy stool before realising his clothes weren’t much better and sitting anyway.

“Haven't seen you around here, before,” the wizened old man behind the counter observed. His robes were a pale blue.

“No, I, er. I just got to town.”

The man shrugged. “What’ll it be?”

“Butterbeer,” Draven answered immediately, then frowned. What on earth is butterbeer? The bartender was looking at him curiously, as well, and he hurried to correct himself. “I mean, er, whiskey.”

“Firewhiskey?”

“Um… yes?”

The man turned to retrieve a glass and a bottle, resuming his quizzical stare when he returned. Setting the glass before Draven, he poured two fingers of smoking amber liquid. Draven swallowed nervously. Was whiskey supposed to do that? Avoiding the glass, he turned back to the bartender.

“You wouldn't happen to know where I could find work in this town, would you?”

He continued to stare.

“You see, ah,” Draven tried again. “I'm heading to France but I don't have the funds to travel.”

The twinkling blue eyes lowered to the glass, then rose back to Draven's.

“Oh, I have money for the drink!” He dug into his pocket but the man just stared. Slowly, he glanced at the drink again, and back to Draven, one white brow quirked.

Oh. Gulping, Draven lifted the glass hastily and blew on the smoke still rising from the alcohol before pouring a drop into his mouth. And subsequently spent the next few minutes sputtering and coughing. The bartender merely smirked and wandered away to replace the bottle on the appropriate shelf.

“You'll want to talk to Harry Potter,” he said, at length. “He's up at the castle for the summer. He's looking for someone; you look like the type.”

Draven shuddered. He didn't like the sound of that… “What kind of work is it, exactly?”

“Didn’t say it  _ was _ work,” he huffed. Before Draven could respond, he slipped away through a door at the back corner behind the bar.

Rather than risk another awkward encounter by asking for directions, Draven fished out a ten pound note and dropped it on the bar. With Snuffles at his heels, he wandered the town hoping to find some clue that might lead him to “the castle.” Were there even castles in this part of England? Perhaps the old man was referring to a business, or a house… That couldn't be right. None of the shops resembled a castle and the largest residential house lay abandoned, set at the bottom of a hillock on the outskirts of town. There was something spooky about the boarded windows and the sagging roof that sent a shiver down his spine. He was willing to bet this house was believed to be haunted by the villagers. It didn’t matter that he didn’t believe in ghosts, Draven left almost as soon as he arrived.

The villagers watched him warily, though most seemed to lose interest when they saw the large dog at his side without a lead. Fear beat out curiosity every time, he mused.

After a while, he decided he’d return to The Hog’s Head and ask the old fool what he was playing at. There clearly was no castle. Heading toward the pub, Draven almost missed Snuffles trotting off back toward the edge of town and the eerie old house. The dog seemed to be familiar with the area; he would be fine if Draven left him to it. Except… Well, it was nice, having company. He wasn't accustomed to being alone after ten years in an orphanage.

Making up his mind, he jogged after the dog, calling out as he went. “Come Snuffles. Come along, we need to go back to the pub!”

Snuffles ignored him and vanished beneath the underbrush around the side of the house. Steeling himself, Draven followed. He tackled the knoll on a jog and froze when he reached the top; There, rising up in the distance stood a magnificent castle. Its towers gleamed in the late evening light and flags drifted from the uppermost levels on a lazy breeze. Expansive grounds surrounded the castle. A forest spread haphazardly to the left of the path leading to the entrance, a large lake sitting perilously close, and a row of outbuildings took up most of the space to the right. From his vantage, he could see a sports field of some kind where tall golden goal posts were just visible, though he couldn’t fathom what kind of sport was played on such a pitch.

On the smoothly packed road, Snuffles sat watching Draven with a big, doggy grin.

“You just know everything, don't you?” he called with a laugh, shaking his head but setting off toward the road all the same.

The gate, when he reached it much later, swung open as he approached. He should be wary, he knew, but a thrilling excitement washed over him, driving him onward. However, when he found the entrance to the building itself hanging ajar, a tingle of apprehension threaded through the excitement. Snuffles nosed at the door briefly before shouldering his way in.

“Snuffles!” Draven hissed. “Snuffles, get back here!” It didn't do any good. The only sound that answered was the echo of his own voice reverberating around the vast hall beyond. Swearing, Draven slipped through the doors, wincing when the heavy oak creaked menacingly on its hinges. Once inside, he dashed through the Entrance Hall, eyes darting left and right. “Snuffles, where are you?” He flinched at the sound of his own voice, unbelievably loud in ostentatious corridor. “Snuffles!”

Chapter Two

Harry sat up straight, lowering his hands from where they’d held his head a moment before. He, Ron, and Remus sat in the Great Hall, going over the confrontation with Narcissa that morning.

“I think you made the right decision, Harry,” Remus was saying. “As hard as it is to accept that he’s gone, this search is getting out of han—”

“Did you hear that?” Harry interrupted, holding up a hand to silence Remus.

Straining to hear, he stood and made his way to the door of the Great Hall, pressing himself against the wood to hear into the Entrance Hall. There! There was a slight vibration reverberating through the walls, a soft shuffle that sounded like feet.

“I think someone’s here,” he said, turning back to see Remus and Ron watching him. “Who would be here? I thought you said Dumbledore was meeting with the Wizengamot.”

“He is,” Remus assure him. “Are you sure? This old castle makes plenty of its own sounds.”

“Yeah, and it could be—”

Before Ron could finish his sentence, a crash sounded off to the side of the Hall, causing all three men to jump. As they watched, the large black dog bounded through the maze of tables and chairs, shifting in a blur of movement just before he reached Remus. With a grin, not unlike its doggy counterpart, Sirius dropped a hand on Remus’ head, gripping the hair to tilt his head back, and dropped an exuberant kiss on his mouth.

“Padfoot,” Ron finished, shaking his head.

“Hello, darlin’,” Sirius murmured before pulling away and nodding at the others.

“Hello Pads,” Remus intoned with a wry grin. “You’re in a good mood.”

“I am, as it happens. You’ll never guess what I found in the woods north of Hogsmeade.”

“Did you find her?” Harry demanded, striding back toward the table. “A clue? Has she been here this whole—”

“I’m sorry Harry, still no sign of Bellatrix.” Sirius shook his head, the brightness in his pale eyes dimming a fraction. “However, I think I may have found a clue to another mystery.”

Remus laid one ankle on his knee opposite and shook out the newspaper he had been reading earlier. “I’m sure the squirrels behave that way every summer, Pads,” he said, disappearing behind the shifting photographs and scrolling text of the Prophet.

“Oh, ha ha ha. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Remus lowered the paper to lift a brow at his husband.

“Okay, fine Moony,” Sirius whined. “That’s not what I’m talking about this time.”

“What are you talking about, Pads?” Ron asked around a mouthful of biscuits. Harry crossed his arms and eyed him expectantly.

“I think I’ve found him,” was all he said, wide smile beaming as he turned from Ron to face Harry, and back again.

“Him?” Harry asked, shooting a look at Ron, who just shrugged.

Sirius nodded, his excitement widening his eyes to near manic proportions. “Yes, yes,  _ him _ . Draco!”

Harry’s heart stuttered. “That— That’s not possible, Sirius.”

“No, Harry, it’s not probable,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “Anything is possible.”

“Draco’s dead, Sirius. It’s not possible.”

“Well, whoever this kid is, he looks a hell of a lot like Narcissa.” Finally understanding that Harry wasn’t going to believe him, he crossed his arms stubbornly, making the most of the few inches he had over Harry.

“Where is he, then?” Harry demanded. “Let’s see this Draco Malfoy of yours.”

“He followed me in. I didn’t want to scare him by changing back. He's dressed like a Muggl—”

“You brought a Muggle here? How is that even possible?” Harry snarled, storming out of the Hall before he could answer.

“Harry!” Ron called, leaping up from the table. “Sorry, Sirius. He’s not doing too good, today. Harry, wait for me!”

-

After a few paces through the Hall, his concern morphed into curiosity and Draven slowed his pace, allowing himself to admire the ancient atmosphere surrounding him. A grand staircase beckoned and he followed it up to the first floor where a contingent of suits of armour lined the walls, keeping guard. Chuckling to himself, Draven ran to the nearest door and flung it open. It was a large room, narrow and long, with rows of desks leading to the head of the room and yet another desk. Shaking his head, he closed the door and moved toward the next, halfway along the corridor. Behind it lay another room full of desks, though this one was smaller and held a large blackboard behind the desk at the opposite end of the room. He wandered away again, mind working. He didn’t exactly have a store of knowledge regarding castles, but this did seem a bit odd. It must have been converted for something more useful, a school, it would seem.

“Hey!” a voice barked, startling him out of his musings. “What are you doing in here?”

Caught red-handed, Draven sprang into action. Without turning to see the man who’d shouted, he bolted, racing down the corridor and up another staircase.

“Wait! Oh, for fuck’s sake, just wait a minute!”

His heart, from where it lodged itself in his throat, beat in time with tempo of his feet slapping the stone flags. Halfway up the stairs, it made a final bid for freedom as the staircase shifted with a terrible grinding noise. It was falling! Draven realised. He was going to die in this godforsaken castle in the middle of nowhere without ever knowing who he was! With an undignified scream, Draven gripped the handrail, ducked down, and waited for death.

And waited.

The grinding sounds faded away and the staircase stilled. And he was still alive. Relief coursing through him, Draven stood up again.

“Alright, that's enough.” The man huffed, bending double to catch his breath. “Stop, damn it. Just hold on a minute!”

Draven decided to risk continuing up the stairs. As soon as he lifted a foot, though, the staircase lurched again, an ominous, grinding rumble, and he scrambled for the railing. Knuckles white on the polished wood, he tried again, hesitantly, and was met with the same heart stopping sound. So, he did the only thing he could. He gave up and turned to face the man, at last.

“Man” was an exaggeration; he couldn't have been much older than Draco. He was tall and scruffy with more than a day's growth of beard blurring his strong jawline, shoulders squared and spine ramrod straight. His dark hair was ridiculously messy, standing on end in places, falling heavily over his forehead and curling around his ears and the collar of his robes. Why were so many people here wearing robes? Maybe he'd stumbled into a cult? Annoyed green eyes glared at him from under a deeply furrowed brow and his lips were moving, forming words Draven could barely hear.

“Now, who are you? What are y-you…” he trailed off, jaw slack, and stared.

Draven shrugged and opened his mouth to answer. Before he could, a thundering clatter of more approaching footsteps echoed from below. He tore his gaze away from the questioning green of the first man’s eyes just as another rounded the corner into sight, this one a lanky redhead covered in freckles.

“Harry! What are yo—”

The first man—Harry, apparently—held his arm out to halt the man’s stride. “Ron, wait,” he whispered loudly.

“Harry?” Draven asked. He lifted a foot, hesitated, and sighed when the staircase remained stationary. Not willing to press his luck, he started down quickly, while he had the chance. “Are you Harry Potter?”

Redhead-Ron gawped, gaze flicking between Draven and the man at his side. “Bloody hell…” He lifted a hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “With that hair, and those eyes… He certainly looks like… Harry, I think Sirius might be—”

“Don't be ridiculous Ron; he's a homeless Muggle. Look at him!”

“Oi! I'm right here.” He had no idea what a Muggle was supposed to be, but the homeless part was clear enough. And it wasn’t like the sloppy idiot was one to talk, he thought, crossing his arms with an annoyed huff.

“Clothes don't make the man, Harry. It's been a long time since—”

“So? Don't you think I'd know if—?”

“Frankly, no.” Ron watched as the oaf snapped his mouth shut, apparently out of words he could pronounce. When it became obvious he wasn't going to argue further, Ron continued. “Now look, he's staring at us. Go say hello.”

The oaf—probably Potter. God, he hoped it wasn't Potter—turned back to Draven, glowering. “Who are you?” he demanded, once more. “How did you get in here?”

“That's not how you pronounce ‘hello’” Draven muttered, but he lifted his chin defiantly. “The door was open,” he said. “I’m looking for work; I was told Harry Potter could help me.”

“Work? Who would send you to me for work?”

“The bartender at The, erm... The Hog’s Head,” he mumbled. God, that was a stupid name. His discomfort at uttering the words was expounded by the way the hard eyes narrowed. “He spoke very highly of you,” he continued. “You see, I'm traveling to Paris and am in need of funds. So, if—”

“Paris?” Potter interrupted, crossing his arms and eyeing Draven. Slowly, he took in his worn clothing and tangled hair. His gaze lingered a touch longer when it got to his face and Draven tried not to squirm.

“Yes. So, if you could just direc—”

“What's in Paris?” Ron asked, gently.

“My— er, I don't actually know. Something. If you'll just—”

“Right. Drayven, was it?” There was a calculating glint in those eyes, now, that made Draven more uncomfortable than the scrutiny of a moment before.

“Draven,” he replied, through clenched teeth. Then again, drawing out the sound, since the man was obviously thick. “Draaaven.”

“Draven, of course. Draven…?”

“Jus— just Draven.”

“No last name?” Potter asked, suspiciously.

He shook his head. “This may sound crazy, but I don’t know my last name. I was found in a small town just north of here when I was a kid.” Nervously, Draven tugged the chain from his shirt, worrying the ring between his fingers, and ducked his head. “No one knew who I was and I couldn’t remember anything before that day. I still can’t… The only clue I have is Paris, so—”

“Harry—”

“No, Ron.” He spoke to Ron but continued to glare at Draven. “He's still a Muggle.”

“What the bloody hell is a Muggle?” Draven asked, exasperation carrying his voice an octave higher than normal. “And why do you keep calling me one?”

Instead of answering, Potter turned back to Ron. “See? No one will believe he’s Draco Malfoy.”

“What I see is a bloke who has no idea who he is, standing inside a castle that Muggles can't see, trying to get to Paris. Oh, and he looks like Draco Malfoy.” Facing him again, Ron addressed Draven at last. “We can take you to Paris,” he said simply.

“Ron—”

“Shut up, Harry.”

“Er, thanks,” Draven began, taking a step backward. These two were off. Where was a big, vicious, black dog when he needed it? “But, you know, I'd rather—”

“See, Ron, you're scaring him. Come on, I'll help you get home.” Potter held out a hand but frowned when Draven took another step back.

Ron snorted. “Sure, I'm scaring him.”

“I'm not scared,” Draven lied. “I just— I came in here to find my dog. Once I find him, I'm sure we'll manage.”

Pulling in a deep breath, he skirted the men and strode down the corridor with as much confidence as he could muster. He made it as far as the Great Hall before the sound of running feet spurred him into a trot, and then faster.

“Wait!” came Potter's voice. “Wait, Draven. I'm sorry!” When he was within reach, he grabbed for Draven's arm but dropped it quickly when a surge of electricity zinged across the connection. “Ow! How did you—?”

“He's a wizard, Harry,” Ron said, strolling past them and disappearing through another massive set of doors in the Entrance Hall.

“A what?” Draven asked, taken aback, then shook his head. “No, never mind. I don't want to know. I’m leaving.” He started back toward the entrance, tensing when he found the doors closed.

“I'm sorry about Ron,” Potter offered. “He's got it in his head that you're—” Pausing to clear his throat, he glanced over, then away again. “But you're not, so—”

“Not what?” Draven pushed against the door, whimpering quietly when it didn’t budge. “A wizard? Insane?” He pushed again, panic rising steadily, along with his voice. “Trapped in a castle with a pair of madmen? What?”

“You might as well tell him, Harry.” Ron returned, passing Potter a satchel and a bundle wrapped in deep blue. Hooking his own satchel over his shoulder, he gave Potter a knowing look. “Your plan is to Apparate him home and Obliviate him, right? Might as well make it worth your while.”

“I can get home on my own, thanks,” Draven wheezed, throwing his insignificant weight against the door, like insects on a windshield. He turned, bracing his feet on the worn stone, and leaned into it.

Potter still stood, arms crossed, with a look of smug amusement glittering in his eyes and Draven felt himself deflate. A glance at Ron, standing with one hand gripping the strap of his satchel and frowning in confused exasperation, confirmed his suspicions: He was making a fool of himself. And both men were just…. Watching. Standing there, watching.

“A little help?” he growled, straightening to level a glare at the other men in an effort to salvage what was left of his dignity.

“Er,” Ron started, scrubbing sheepishly at his neck, while Potter laughed. “It, er, swings in.”

“Right. Of course, it does.” Just then, Draven noticed the black dog sitting between Potter and Ron in the Entrance Hall. He had his head tilted, as if he was studying him, as well. Smug bastard. “Snuffles, there you are! Come on, let’s go. These two are no help.”

“Hey, now. I said we’d help,” Ron protested as Potter scoffed:

“Snuffles?”

Snuffles tipped his head back to look up at Potter, letting his tongue loll stupidly from his muzzle. Draven glowered. “Yes, Snuffles.” The eyes—that unusual grey colour so similar to Draven’s own eyes—rolled back to him, although his head continued to face the gruff man beside him. “Come along, Snuffles, we’re leaving.”

Snuffling, the dog lumbered to his feet and turned to face Potter. After a moment, he lunged forward, nipping at Potter’s ankles, pitifully clad in soft leather. Potter howled, finally looking down at the animal, and Ron doubled over, laughing. “What the fuck, Pads?”

“Snuffles! No!” Draven rushed forward, but the dog was already trotting to his side, a smug look flickering in his eyes. Shooting an apologetic glance to Potter, Draven turned back to the door, remembering to pull this time. Potter rubbed at his injured ankle with the toe of the other foot, watching him go.

-

“Come on, Harry,” Ron sighed. He hitched his bag higher on his shoulder, and strode toward the door, shaking his head.

“Ron!” Harry called. “Ron, this is ridiculous.” Grumbling under his breath, he followed.

There was no way that skinny waif was Draco; the very idea was absurd. Sure, he looked similar, but that didn’t mean much. Loony Lovegood had similar features; Harry could still remember the first time he'd seen her in the Great Hall. For a moment, he'd been lost in memories, stumbling across the hall toward familiar pale hair. But the light eyes that met his when he jerked her around by the shoulder were not the shifting grey he sought. The slightly dazed look was not what he expected.

He knew now that there were quite a few witches and wizards who shared bloodlines with the Malfoys. It was ridiculous to assume identity based solely on appearance. But, if the idea brewing in his mind was successful, they wouldn’t need to rely on his appearance, alone. He’d have to speak to Ron, he was getting far too attached to the slim possibility that this bloke was actually Draco. That wouldn’t do. He needed Ron’s strategic mind to pull this off. Mind working, Harry hung back, letting a plan form.

“Oh, for the love of—” Draven bit off when he realised Ron was walking in step beside him.

“What’s the matter?” Ron asked without a trace of irony. “I thought Muggles wanted to be wizards.”

“I don’t know what a Muggle is, but I know there’s no such thing as magic.” He rested a hand on Padfoot’s head, his arm shaking almost imperceptibly. He was definitely scared, Harry mused. They’d have to work on that if they were going to get him to Paris to meet Narcissa…

“’Course there is,” Ron chuckled. “That’s just mean.”

“No, you’re just crazy. But that’s fine, we’re almost to town,” he returned brightly. Harry found himself laughing at the obvious attempt to placate a madman. “Then we’ll be surrounded by people who can help me.”

“You don’t believe me,” Ron said reasonably. “But it’s true. What’s more, every last man, woman, and child in that town is a witch or wizard, too. Even the animals are magical.”

Draven snorted. “I see,” was all he said. He hadn’t turned since they started down the path, but kept his eyes trained on Hogsmeade in the distance. Now was no exception. As he passed through the open gate—open?—he looked down at the dog to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. “Come along, Snuffles.”

Ron, however, was not one to give up. “We can show you,” he offered. Glancing back to Harry, he jerked his head toward Draven. “Can’t we, Harry?”

No matter how much Harry wanted the man to walk away, to never have to see him again, he knew they needed him. Harry needed him.

“You know Muggles, Ron,” he sneered, smirking at Draven. “We could show him, but he would never believe it.”

As he hoped, Draven’s skinny shoulders tensed visibly and he straightened his spine before whipping around. He was quite attractive, Harry thought. All that righteous fury, clad in frayed denims and thin tee shirt. His hair was falling loose from a knot on the back of his head and wisps drifted in the breeze, gleamed in the afternoon sun. Not that it mattered, of course. He was a Muggle, and they had to pass him off as a Squib. His looks were only relevant to that end. Still, indignation was a good look on him.

“Stop calling me that,” he spat, glaring daggers at Harry.

“Oh, so you are a wizard?” Harry asked, conversationally.

“Don’t be daft. Of course I’m not.”

“Well,” he replied, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “That makes you a Muggle, your grace. I can’t help that any more than I can help that Muggles are dim witted, ignorant—”

“Fine.” Curling his hands into fists, Draven lunged forward, putting them toe to toe, and lifted his chin to level Harry with a challenging stare. “Show me your magic, Potter.”

“Ron,” Harry began evenly, eyes firmly locked on the swirling grey watching him. “Meet us at the Manor, yeah?” With a wicked grin, he snaked one arm around Draven’s waist, turned on his heel, and Apparated them away.

Chapter Three

When Harry landed on the drive of Malfoy Manor, he stumbled—he'd yet to master landing—and nearly dropped the impertinent blond in his grasp. Frowning, he glanced down. The struggling, impertinent blond…

Gasping for breath, Draven wrenched his arms free and shoved away. “What was that?” he choked. “What did you do to me, Potter?”

“We Apparated…” Harry cocked his head and studied him. Draven was eyeing him warily between flitting little glances around the grounds. “You said I could show you magic.”

“‘Apparated?’ That was— Where are we? What are you?” He backed away a few steps, nearly tripping over a white peacock the strutted along behind and eliciting a squawk from both parties.

“Harry.” Ron growled as he popped out of Apparition at his shoulder. Padfoot barrelled from the wood to their left to lean supportively against Draven’s leg. With a quelling look at Harry, he turned to approach Draven but stopped when his back shot straight and he jumped back half a step. “Draven, calm down—”

“Calm down?” Draven cried and backed away further, wild grey eyes flicking between them. “Calm down? You just fucking teleported me! Why the fuck should I calm down?”

“Because you're going to pass out if you keep hyperventilating.” Harry strode forward, forcing himself to continue when Draven cringed away from him, and took him by the arms. “Settle down, you'll be fine.” He turned to Ron. “He said I could—”

Ron took Harry’s elbow, angling him away, his voice low and worried when he spoke. “Look at him, Harry. He has no idea what's happening; bloody hell, you can’t just drag someone into Apparition.”

Frowning, Harry flicked a glance over his shoulder to study the terrified man as he buried his hands in Padfoot’s matted fur for comfort.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” he hissed. “But I’m trying to prove a point. He’s a Muggle, Ron. We have to take him home and Obliviate him.”

“You have to what?”

Ron winced before answering. “Obliviate.” He explained. “It’s a spell to alter memories. Don’t worry, we’re—”

With a look of desperate horror, Draven wrenched himself away, again. “What? No! I can't remember the first half of my life, I'm not giving up any more.”

“We wouldn’t do that to you, would we Harry?” Ron asked, pointedly.

Harry frowned. He wanted to tweak the man’s nose, not terrify him. “Of course not,” he muttered. Padfoot nudged Draven’s knee with his nose and he crumpled, falling to the ground and wrapping shaking arms around the sturdy dog. Furious grey eyes found Harry’s from through a cloud of pale hair, and he deflated. “We should go inside,” he suggested. “We need to talk about this. I— I'll put the kettle on…” He watched Draven rise carefully, keeping a hand on Padfoot’s big head, then turned to lead the way into the Manor.

-

An hour and two pots of tea later, Draven sat with Padfoot lying across his feet, fingers white around his teacup but no longer shaking.

“Magic?” he asked, incredulously, for the umpteenth time.

“Yep,” Ron nodded.

“Magic is real. And you two are wizards.”

“That's the long and short of it,” Harry agreed.

“Show me. Show me something other than teleportation,” he clarified when Ron sputtered his tea.

Harry pulled out his wand without a second thought. This discussion was getting old; it was time to move things along. “Accio Malfoy photo album.”

Draven jolted when a leather-bound volume sailed across the drawing room where they sat. Harry snatched it out of the air and flipped through the pages until he found the photograph of Draco and his parents, taken a year before the attack. It struck him, again, just how much Draven resembled his childhood friend. The pale hair and eyes, high cheekbones. But Draven had a decidedly waifish appearance in his frayed denims and thin tee shirt. His hair, grown nearly to his shoulders and pulled back in a tail, was darker than Draco’s platinum blond. His face was softer around the edges than Draco's had ever been. Draco had been a pointy git.

Swallowing the emotions clogging his throat when seven-year-old Draco flicked his eyes up to his father and smirked, Harry passed the album to Draven. His eyes widened when he saw the movement in the photograph and Harry sighed. Definitely a Muggle. Ron would just have to accept it. 

“This is Draco Malfoy. Years ago, there was a war in our world. Draco's parents were on the wrong side but defected, betraying the dark lord and his followers, and helped the Order of the Phoenix win. After the war, they threw a ball, every year, to celebrate the anniversary of our victory.”

Draven’s eyes left the photo, lifted to search his. “On the fifth anniversary, there was an ambush. A band of Voldemort's Death Eaters attacked the ball. Most of them were killed or arrested, but they took a good chunk of the winning side with them; Draco's father, both of my parents, Ron's brother.” He cast an apologetic glance at Ron. “We ran, but the psychopath leading the attack, Draco's Aunt Bellatrix, followed.”

“And, that's when Draco was lost?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Narcissa Apparated away with Draco while my godfather and his husband got us away. It wasn't until later that we learned there had been an accident; Narcissa was panicked, unsteady, and she—” He choked, unable to force the words out, and turned away from the piercing grey eyes that watched him.

“She lost him,” Ron finished, picking up the story. “It's called splinching, when something goes wrong with Apparition. She couldn't focus, so she couldn't hold him. She's been looking for him, ever since, even offered a reward if some… someone, er, found him…” He trailed off, ducking his head when Draven’s gaze shot to him.

“And— and you're saying you think I could be this boy?”

“What I’m saying,” Ron said, shoot a glance at Harry, “is that I have seen thousands of men, from all over the U.K. and not one of them looks as much like Draco Malfoy as you. Just look at the phot—”

“You know,” Draven said primly, snapping the album closed and rising, “I knew you were off from the start, but I really do think you are both mad.”

Ron frowned. “It's possible, isn't it?” he asked Draven. “You said you don't remember who you are or where you came from; no one knows where he ended up. You're looking for clues to your past in Paris and Draco's mother is in Paris.”

“But I'm not a wizard!”

“You could be,” Harry said carefully, after a moment. He supposed, logically, that was true; he could be a Half Blood or a Muggleborn… “You were raised by Muggles, right? Did you ever make things happen, maybe when you were excited or scared? Things you couldn’t explain?”

“No,” he snorted.

That was what Harry had expected, so he nodded, but Ron wasn't finished. He set his teacup on the end table beside him and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.

“Did you ever think about it? Using magic, the power to guide your destiny?” he asked. 

Draven shook his head, slowly. “Well, I don’t know… it’s hard to think of yourself as powerful when you sleep on a damp cot, but… Sure?” he shrugged. “I suppose every lonely kid dreams of having a magical power hidden away…”

“Sometimes, dreams come true,” Ron replied, nodding sagely.

Draven seemed to consider the possibilities for a moment. Finally, he spoke. “So, you're suggesting we go to Paris and meet with Mrs. Malfoy? Just go see her? If I'm Draco, she'll recognise me right away and i-if not, no harm done. You can get back to your search and I can go about my business.”

“Of course,” Harry grinned. “Either way, it gets you to Paris, right?”

Draven nodded, haltingly. “Okay. I'll do it. When do we leave?”

“We need to collect a few things. We could Apparate to the Portkey office in London and—”

But Draven was shaking his head, eyes panicked, again. “No, absolutely not. You said this boy was splinched, or whatever, because of Apparating. It's the reason he's missing in the first place, isn't it? No, if you want me, we'll travel my way.” He crossed his arms over his skinny chest with a stubborn jut of his chin and Harry had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling. The kid had spunk, he had to admit.

“A compromise, then.” He mirrored the stance, settling back in his chair. “We'll take a train from London to the coast. And we’ll take a boat from there.”

“I don't know how to charter a ferry.”

“A fairy?” Ron’s eyes widened. “See, Harry; Muggles can't see fairies!” he said with a pointed look at Harry.

“What?” Draven frowned, then sniggered when he realised Ron’s mistake. “No, ferry. F-e-r-r-y. It's a boat that takes people short distances, like to and from the continent.”

“Oh.” Ron chuckled but a flush was creeping up his ears.

Harry smirked and turned back to Draven. “We'll figure it out. You wait here, we’ll go pack what we’ll need.”

He rose, pausing to wait for Ron. With one last glance at Draven, his mind already in the Malfoy library and what books would be the most useful, Harry strode out into the corridor.

-

Draven had never been very good at waiting. After an hour of pacing the small drawing room, fingering the books on the shelves and looking at whatever decorations survived years of looting, he was growing unbearably restless. His eyes shifted from the clock above a writing desk on one wall to the full bookcases lining the opposite wall, and back. It was nearly half past one o’clock and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. God, had it only been this morning that he’d left St. Margaret’s?

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Summoning the dog with a pat on his leg, Draven walked toward the door. The wide corridor was empty, silent. He could hear his own heart beating, but couldn’t make out a single sound that would lead him to Potter or Ron. He shot a look of nervous excitement to Snuffles before slipping through the door.

He studied the portraits that hung in the dark corridors, opened doors that led to countless sleeping quarters and other drawing rooms. On the ground floor, he found a vast library and miniscule broom cupboard. One door led to a small, dark chamber with shelves lining the walls where jars and phials, filled with unpleasant looking substances, jostled for space. In the centre, there stood what could only be called a cauldron.

Wizards, he reminded himself. These men were wizards, as was the family who had lived in this enormous house. He had the distinct impression someone was pulling an elaborate prank, and he might believe that if he hadn't seen the evidence for himself. But that they thought he could be a wizard, too? That was harder to accept. He could see the resemblance himself, but it was impossible. Wasn't it? Even so, if he was honest with himself, there was a part of him that hoped it was true. And what else was there to do? These men offered him a chance at the only dream he'd had in ten years. He had no choice but to see this through and, as Potter said, it got him to Paris.

Closing the door on the disturbing little room, Draven turned away. He trailed a hand along the wall, around a corner and down another corridor, until he came to the foyer where he stopped at the base of the grand staircase, contemplating where to go next. He didn't know where Potter and Ron had gone. Not that he was exactly anxious to seek them out.

Snuffling, the dog leaped up the stairs and plopped himself before a large set of heavy, wooden doors—not as big as those in the castle, but still quite large—and gazed imploringly over his shoulder. With a shrug, Draven followed, happy enough to let the dog decide for him. At the top, he pulled one door open, just enough for himself and Snuffles to slip through. Why not? he mused. He'd opened every door along the way.

Inside, he stood atop a grand staircase that split off in two; It followed the walls down, on either side, to a magnificent ballroom. Or, to a ballroom that had once been magnificent. By the dull light filtering in through the open door and arching, grime covered windows, he could see the evidence of its former glory strewn across the marble floor, hanging in tatters from the walls. Fine cloth and splintered wood littered the room and furniture lay overturned. The floor was scorched in places, chipped where an elegant chandelier had fallen to shatter in the center of the room. The decor spoke of casual wealth, but nothing of value remained, picked over in the years since the attack.

This is where it happened, he realised. A mad witch had rallied a group of war criminals and hatched a plan to take revenge for their fallen leader. They entered this room with what were, essentially, loaded guns and opened fire. It was a terrorist attack, simply put, and it had claimed the lives of many witches and wizards, torn families apart…

With bated breath, he picked his way over debris and down the stairs, avoiding the crumbling edges. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the strains of a string quartet drift through the air from—yes, that far corner.

He stepped carefully, following the tempo in his head, and turned into a simple waltz that carried him in dizzying circles around the room. Laughter rang over the music, a friendly shout.

“Why do I have to be the girl?”

“You’re not a girl.” His nose wrinkled for a moment. “Do you know how to dance?”

Flashes of dark hair and shining eyes smiling down at him.

“Dancing is for girls!”

“So? It's fun!”

The music echoed, filled the cavernous room and Draven glided with it. One, two, three. One, two, three. Around him, the ballroom came to life, colour filling the dull, grime covered satin, bleeding into the dusty, curse scorched marble, saturating the room in a wave of life.

Laughing, chattering guests spun and Draven followed. He accepted the hand of each young woman brave enough to approach him, pale robes swirling around him with every twist and turn around the floor. On and on, he danced, until one woman twirled away and was replaced by a dark stranger in rumpled, emerald robes. His features blurred but he was tall, his hands strong and steady when one took Draven’s, the other resting on his shoulder, allowing him to lead.

A crescendo lifted him and Draven smiled at the man in his arms, unsure what reaction such circumstances might warrant. The man laughed, tugging Draven close and pressing their foreheads together as he whispered, “My friend…” And then he was gone, turning to stand at Draven’s side and bow as a regal man, clad in elegant black robes, offered his hand to Draven. His pale hair was pulled into a loose plait down his back and what could be seen of it framed a square jaw and handsome features. 

Lucius Malfoy. Draven recognized him from the photographs. He smiled fondly when the dark haired man relinquished Draven’s hand and swept him into a waltz while the guests stepped back to watch.

Here, for the first time he could remember, Draven felt safe. Loved. He gasped when the music slowed, held tighter to the wide hand guiding his. The man simply smiled and came to a halt. He took both of Draven’s hands in his and, bending at the waist, pressed a soft kiss to his brow before stepping back, slowly, as he faded.

Startled, Draven looked around the room as reality reasserted itself. His face was wet, tears streaming down his cheeks. Releasing a shaky breath, he turned in a circle to see that Snuffles was nowhere in sight. Ignoring the inexplicable ache in his chest, he moved toward the staircase and left the battered ballroom behind to search for his dog.

Chapter Four

On the other side of the grand house, Harry and Ron shuffled into the kitchen. A rat that was scrounging around on the large, scarred table scurried away with a distressed squeak but garnered no more than a glance from the men.

“You're ready?” Harry asked.

“Just about. I- er, I packed a couple of Malfoy’s old robes,” Ron answered while he ducked his head hopefully into a long-barren cupboard. “He's going to need something decent to wear, so—-”

“It's fine, Ron. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, mate…”

Harry set his bag on the table, rummaging through it for the worn leather pouch he kept inside. When his fingers landed on the smooth material, he didn’t withdraw it. Instead, he fingered the tattered edges, as he frequently did, and thought of its hidden treasure. The ring he’d found that horrible night. No one knew he had it; first because he had forgotten about it in the chaos and, later, because he didn’t have the strength to let it go. By now, he knew what it was and who had the other half and he could barely stand to see it, due to that knowledge. But he couldn’t tell Narcissa he’d had it all this time, either…

Ron searched the ransacked kitchen, though he knew he wouldn't find anything, and the sounds hammered at the headache building behind Harry's eyes.

“Please, Ron. Could you not?”

Ron slammed a cupboard shut and swung around to face him. “What are you thinking, Harry?” he hissed, striding forward and slapping his hands down on the table. “I had to twist your arm to get you to go after him at Hogwarts. Now you’re literally packing his bags to take him to Narcissa! You’re plotting.”

“You know me too well,” Harry intoned, dryly. “Of course, I’m plotting. This is the perfect opportunity to get Narcissa to call off the search.”

“So, you believe he could be Draco?”

“No, Ron. Think about it. This guy is perfect; no memory, no past, a dead ringer for a Malfoy. Wouldn't Narcissa be just as happy to believe he was found?”

“What? Harry, no! That's— you are mad, aren’t you?” Shaking his head, Ron lifted a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “He cou— You know what, no. Fine. It’ll give me time to convince you.”

“It’s a good idea,” Sirius stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting on the jamb.

“No, Sirius, it’s mental. But that’s fine. If Harry wants to live in denial—”

“Thanks for the support and all,” Harry interrupted. “But what are you up to?”

“I've been with Draven, keeping an eye on the boy.”

“Exactly; Draven. What were you thinking, bringing a Muggle to Hogwarts? How did he even get in?”

Sirius shrugged. “He must not be a Muggle, Einstein.”

“Wouldn't he have been summoned for school if he was magical?” Harry asked. “If he's a wizard, he would have performed accidental magic.”

“Maybe he did get his letter. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he's a Squib. I don't know. What I do know is—”

“Snuffles?” Draven’s voice drifted in from a distance.

Whipping around to peek beyond the door and down the corridor, Sirius held a finger to his lips and shifted, his form shimmering and morphing until the large black dog sat before them. Not a moment too soon, Draven strode into the room.

“There you are.” He paused when he saw the others standing at the table. “Here you all are, apparently.”

“Why do you call him Snuffles?” Harry asked, tilting his head even as Padfoot did.

“Why does anyone name a dog anything, Potter? He snuffles, so I call him Snuffles.”

“Right.” Rising, Harry gathered his bag and the trunk he’d packed with books on the Malfoy family history. “It's a mile to the end of the drive, nearly ten to get to the main road, but—”

“What? Where the hell are we?”

“—but, I have an idea.” With that, he marched out of the room, muttering under his breath about self-important blonds. “Honestly! 'We have to do this the Muggle way, Potter.' 'What do you mean I have to walk, Potter?'" Just outside the door, he turned back. "Let’s go, your grace!” he barked.

As Ron, Draven, and Padfoot filed through the door, a whiskered nose twitched and a shiny, pink tail flicked thoughtfully.

Draco Malfoy, he thought. It was unlikely, after ten years, but there he stood. The Malfoy hair, the Black eyes, his mother's chin, his father's sneer. There could be no denying. Of course, the Potter brat doubted it anyway. Which was for the best, all things considered.

And, all things considered, Bellatrix would want to hear about this. He wouldn’t care except, well, she had lost her mind, hadn’t she? Not even in the last ten years; she was already barmy before the Dark Lord fell.

Certain enough time had passed and the men were gone, he scrambled across the flagstone kitchen floor, through a hole in the wall, and navigated the Manor’s familiar corridors until he broke out into the courtyard. He blanched when he saw them still on the grounds, digging through a broom shed.

“It won't do any good, Harry.” Weasley called into the shed. “This place has been completely looted, you think they'd have left the brooms?”

“Brooms? Are you planning to clean the place before we leave?” Malfoy snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Clean? No, the brooms are for fl—”

“Damn it all!” Potter shouted, bursting out of the small structure. “Okay, stay here. I'm going to go get my brooms.”

He spun on his heel and was gone with an annoyed pop.

Weasley sighed. “We use broomsticks to fly,” he explained and Malfoy stilled for a moment before his aristocratic face split into a wide grin.

“Well, The Three Broomstick makes considerably more sense as a pub name. So, witches really fly on broomsticks then? Would’ve guessed that’d be a myth.”

With another pop, Potter returned, clutching three brooms and the rat dragged himself away before Weasley answered. Running along the shadow of the house until he reached the opposite side, he ducked under a curtain of willow branches. With one, fumbling movement, he shimmered from rat to man and Apparated away.

-

“So, I say ‘my way’ and you think, what? ‘Hey, why don’t we fly?’” Draven scoffed, feigning disinterest. Still, he eyed the broomsticks curiously.

“Yes. We'll stay low so Your Majesty doesn't lose his shit, again. Ron, concealment charms?”

“On it. What if the broom won't let him ride?” he asked, smirking when Potter scowled.

“Why wouldn't it?” Draven asked, a little offended and more than a little intrigued.

“It's magic. If you're a Muggle or a Squib, it probably won't respond to you,” Potter explained while Ron pulled a long, thin stick from his pocket—neither man was wearing robes anymore, and Draven found himself irrationally relieved—and began waving it over the broomsticks. When he finished with the first, Potter took it and laid it on the ground. “Your chariot, your gr—”

“Stop that,” Draven snapped, shoving him aside and taking his place over the broom.

Now what? Shrugging, he bent to pick it up, ignoring Potter when he grabbed for his arm, disapproval clear on his face. They both jumped when the broom shot up, through the remaining distance and into Draven's outstretched hand. It vibrated almost imperceptibly and Draven felt a rush of excitement. Could he fly?

Potter stepped back. “Well, would you look at that…” He crossed his arms and nodded curtly. “Go on, then. Give it a go.”

Ron finished with the other brooms and looked up as Draven lifted one leg hesitantly over the handle, adjusting his grip until there was room for his bum in the center without releasing it. “N-now what?” he asked, gritting his teeth in an effort to hide how he was shaking. Potter was suddenly at his side, one hand on his shoulder, the other steadying the broom.

“This is a Nimbus 2000. It's outdated now, but still in excellent condition. It will respond to your movements.” He shifted his grip, slipping his other hand down to the small of Draven back when he startled as the broom tilted with the change. “Lift up steadily to go up, softly to slow down, or quickly to stop. Push down to dive or just tilt your hand forward to speed up.” Draven nodded along, his knuckles white on the handle and his whole body leaning slightly toward Potter's soothing voice. “If you want to turn, lean left or right. Easy as—”

“Riding a bicycle?” Draven laughed. “I never learned to do that either.” He turned his head to find Potter staring at him, a soft look in his vibrant eyes, and a shiver trailed down his spine.

“Hey, now,” he said, voice low and surprisingly affectionate. “If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it.”

Snorting, Draven rolled his eyes. He didn't realise Potter had removed his hand from the handle, didn't realise his feet were no longer touching the ground, until Potter’s hand slid around his hip and down his leg and the air in his lungs escaped in a rush. “Potter!” he cried. “Don't let go!”

“You've got it,” he assured. “Just remember what I said!”

Draven was still rising, slowly. The broom was even with Potter's head, then the tree line of the forest surrounding the Manor. Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward, just a hair, and gasped when the broom shot ahead. Mind scrambling to remember the instructions Potter had just explained, he jerked up on the handle, pleased when it pulled up short.

Except, it kept going. He held on desperately as the broom carried him, head over heel, back several feet before he managed to steady it. Hooking a foot around the bundle of twigs that made up the tail, he twisted his body, bringing it upright and levelling off.

“You okay?” Potter shouted, from his left.

“Of course,” he sneered. Potter looked like he was born on the blasted thing, the wind buffeting his already wild hair, and he'd be damned if he let the smug bastard outdo him. “It's a piece of cake. I'm sure I could fly circles around you!”

On a bark of laughter, Potter shot forward, racing the wind ahead. “I'll take that challenge! Catch me if you can!”

Draven stared a moment, then pushed his broom into action, chasing after Potter with a determination he'd never felt before. After a few minutes, he seemed to realise what, exactly, he was doing. With a whoop of joy, he pumped a fist in the air, laughing aloud when a wind current forced the broom between his legs to swoop downward, momentarily.

“Alright there, Draven?” Ron called from behind him.

“Fantastic!”

He laughed. “Good! Harry! Come back here!” when Potter pulled alongside them, he pointed to the road, just visible through the trees below. “I reckon this goes all the way to town, we should follow it and look for a place to land.”

Land? Shit! Potter hadn't said anything about landing!

“We can find a bus from there.”

“Why don't we just fly to London?” Potter asked, raising his voice as a flock of geese passed overhead. Draven gasped; when had they gotten so high? “Skip the bus and go straight for the train?”

“Think you can go that long, Draven?”

Go where? Oh, right, London. Considering he didn't know how to stop? Sure, why not? “Yeah, of course.” Then, remembering the dog, exclaimed, “What about Snuffles?”

Turning in place, Potter scanned the ground then pressed the tip of his wand to his own throat. When he spoke again, his voice thundered around the countryside. Following his gaze, Draven spotted the dog sitting patiently beneath them.

“Hey, Pads!” Potter shouted. “Go on ahead, we'll meet you at King's cross!”

Pads? “Pads?” he asked, aloud. “Why are you calling him Pads?”

“Short for Padfoot,” Potter answered, absently, still watching the speck of black on the ground. Suddenly, he pulled his broom into a dive and Ron chuckled.

Draven furrowed his brow, mind whirling. Every time Snuffles disappeared, he found him with Potter. The look on his furry face, when he’d looked up at Potter in the castle, that had been adoration, hadn’t it? God damn it.

“He’s your dog, isn’t he?”

“You could say that,” Ron answered. “But, no. Snuffles is a great name. Loads of, er… character.”

“He'll be fine,” Potter said, rejoining them. “He’s just sour because he wants to fly. I only brought three brooms!” he shouted back toward the ground. “Don't look at me like that, I forgot!”

Draven opened his mouth to argue, but Snuffles was already trotting into the forest.

“This is ridiculous!” he argued, anyway. “He's going to get lost! If he even understood you in the first place! Come on, we'll just walk to town.”

“He'll be okay, Draven,” Ron assured him. “He's a— a very special dog…”

He bit his lip, still unsure, but decided to let it go. Snuffles had already guided him on a five-hour trek through a forest, up to the castle, and survived Apparating. This wouldn't be the first unbelievable thing Draven had witnessed in the past twenty-four hours…

“Fine. But we're coming back for him if he isn't there.”

Nodding, Ron and Potter sped up, Draven right behind them.

-

Landing in the Shrieking Shack, Peter Pettigrew tripped over a broken chair and stumbled a few feet, swearing. Why he'd ever suggested this place as hideout, he didn't know. He knew it wasn't actually haunted, but he'd never liked the place. Which could account for why Pads never thought to look for them there…

A crash shook the ceiling above him and he cringed. Perfect, Bellatrix was awake.

“Wormtail! Where are you, you snivelling wretch?”

And angry.

He scurried to the stairs, avoiding more debris, and up. “Yes, mistress!” he called. “I'm coming!”

“Where have you been?” she screeched. I've been calling for an hour!” She lay stretched across the most serviceable piece of furniture remaining in the awful house; a threadbare lounge in the master bedroom. Her filthy hair hid half of her face; a face that had become nearly skeletal in the years they had been hiding. Her shrill voice was a direct contrast to the blank, empty stare of her eyes.

“Begging pardon, mistress. I was at Malfoy Manor— they've found him!”

A spark of life flitted through the deep, desolate grey. “Him?” she whispered.

“Draco Malfoy, ma'am. He's alive!”

But she didn't appear to hear him as, muttering to herself, she slid to her feet. Her eyes darted, unseeing, around the room and she began to pace.

“Of course the brat is still alive! How could he come back when the traitors’ son remains? But it's been ten years! And she splinched him—the papers said… there's no other explanation!” Whipping her head around, she fixed Wormtail with a sneer. “You're positive?” she demanded.

“Y-yes, mistress. T-there can be no mis-mistaking the resemblance.”

“Of course not.” She resumed pacing, the floor creaking dangerously when she sped her pace. “They'll take him to ‘Cissa and he'll be out of my reach. No, we have to act now!”

“Mistress, if I may?” He flinched when she faced him again. “They're still at the Manor. Or only just left. They were collecting brooms when I left.”

With a wave of her wand, she conjured an orb of green smoke, something resembling a smile twisting her cracked lips. “They've left,” she sneered when the image formed. “They're going to fly to London.”

“What will you do, mistress? The Death Eaters have all been captured or killed…”

Thoughtfully, she lifted a hand, pressed one long finger to her lips. “Yes, we are rather low on allies… and you're completely useless. The Dark Lord relied on many creatures… Perhaps some are still loyal…”

“The werewolves are always bloodthirsty. Greyback may be—”

“Greyback cannot mount an attack from the sky, you fool. No, I've got it. Follow me, Wormtail!” She spun and marched through the door, Wormtail hurrying to follow.

“Wh-where, Mistress?"

“Azkaban.”

Cringing, he watched her Disapparate, then turned on his heel and followed

Chapter Five

“Okay, Draven,” Ron started, pointing to a speck of field below. “We should aim for that park. The concealment charms should hold, but be careful. We aren't allowed to let Muggles see magic. Wouldn’t want to get the Aurors involved.”

“O-okay. And, er, how do I land, exactly?”

Harry laughed, though he felt a twinge of guilt. Pulling his Firebolt alongside Draven, he gestured as he explained. “You'll want to guide the broom downward, slowly. The best method for beginners is to fly loose circles as you descend.”

Draven nodded, eyes focused on the handle of Harry's old Nimbus 2000. Now, there were some memories. His very first broom. Sirius had helped him sneak it into Hogwarts—not an easy task since Remus was a professor. With his father's cloak and the Marauders Map, getting away to fly had been a cinch. He still had to wait till second year to try out for the house Quidditch team, but it was worth it as long as he didn't have to stop flying altogether. Usually he kept the broom in a glass-fronted case at home, in Godric's Hollow, along with the first Snitch he'd ever caught. Dumbledore had given it to him as a graduation gift with some cryptic advice about ending at the beginning. Or was it beginning at the end? Batty old fool, he thought fondly.

Draven did as he instructed, turning loose circles as the ground rose to meet him. Harry stayed by his side, sending him encouragement and corrections until his feet hit the ground. He touched down just in time to catch Draven as he stumbled off of the broom, his legs wobbling uncontrollably.

“Easy,” he said, when the man swore. “That was a long trip for your first time on a broom. Get your feet under you.”

Shaking his head, Draven pushed away. “I'm fine, Potter,” he snapped, a flush blooming high on his cheeks.

Harry frowned. Merlin, he'd actually liked the prat for a while. Too bad he had to go and open his mouth; Harry should have known it wouldn't last. He was glad this brat wasn't Draco; Draco was bright and friendly, clever and funny. And gone.

“Right, let's go.” Ron landed as he approached and watched him march by with a confused frown. “Come on,” Harry snarled when nobody moved, relishing the dark satisfaction when both men jumped and followed.

“What's wrong, mate?” Ron asked, jogging a little to catch up. “Did something happen? Everything seemed fine. I can't believe we got him in the air, after that Apparition…”

“Leave it, Ron. I just want to get this over with.”

“Over with? This was your idea; we don't have to do it.”

Harry scowled. “Of course, we do. Narcissa won't give up. She hasn't in ten years, and I can't take another ten.”

Ron shrugged, but fell silent and they continued on toward the train station. He collected the brooms and surreptitiously shrank them, ignoring the wince Harry couldn’t contain. He hated shrinking things, but brooms most of all. The walk to King’s Cross was blessedly short and uneventful. Padfoot met them at the entrance and, before he knew it, they were all standing before Platform 3 & ⅔ while Ron tried to convince Draven the barrier would admit them, Draven shouted that he wouldn't run at a brick wall, and Harry scowled.

“No! We took your silly broomsticks to get here when I already said we would travel my way.” Lifting his chin defiantly, Draven turned and strode toward the ticket booth.

Harry sighed as Padfoot veered away from the barrier he'd been approaching. “I'd apologise for his behaviour, but you brought him into our lives…”

With a shake of his head, Padfoot chased after Draven, nipping at his heels to corral him back toward the gate. Draven’s annoyed cries could be heard halfway through the lobby of King’s Cross Station.

“What are you doing, you stupid— ow— mangy— ah— flea bitten, good-for-nothi— fuck me!”

Harry tried not to laugh, he really did… well, for a moment. But, really, the snooty blond looked pretty damn good on his arse. Or, his arse looked pretty damn good in general, as was demonstrated when he scrambled up from the lobby floor to follow Padfoot back to their platform. As he passed, shuffling after the dog even as he passed through the brick barrier, Harry thought he heard him mumble what sounded like “smug bastard,” but didn’t know whether he was referring to Harry or Pads.

Shaking his head, he accepted Ron’s elbow jab in good humour as they followed the others through to the platform.

-

Draven took in everything around him. Hidden platforms aside, he didn’t think trains like this still existed. Along one side of the long, sapphire coloured steam engine, a narrow corridor ran the length of the entire body. The other two-thirds of the width was occupied by private compartments with sliding wooden doors that had a window centered in the upper half. Each compartment housed two wide, bench-style seats, overhead storage, and a small, fold-away table top built into the wall beneath the window. The window itself stretched from one side of the compartment to the other and from about a foot above the floor, nearly to the ceiling.

Staring in wonder, he took a seat next to the window only when Potter bumped into him in his effort to stow their paltry luggage. Snuffles leapt into the opposite seat immediately, turning in a tight circle to find a comfortable position before flopping unceremoniously across half the available space. Similarly, Ron sat down and wiggled his bum for a moment, as if sinking into a familiar armchair after a long day. Having witnessed the process, Draven’s grin gave way to full-fledged laughter as Potter backed himself toward the seat where Snuffles was sprawled, earning a warning growl from the imposing creature.

“Seriously, Pads? What do you need the window seat for? You’re just going to sleep for the whole trip.”

Snuffles breathed deeply through his nose, a sound that was suspiciously huffy, and eyed Potter until he took the seat beside Draven, muttering under his breath. Laughing, Draven gave an exaggerated gasp, hand flying to his throat, as if scandalised.

“You wouldn’t dare neuter him, Potter!” he exclaimed.

Potter and Snuffles both snapped their heads toward him.

“I didn’t say tha— I would neve—” On a huff of his own, Potter glared at Draven before returning to muttering under his breath. “As if Moony would let me…”

Ron chuckled, pulling a roll of heavy paper and an old-fashioned quill from his satchel. He glanced at Snuffles, smiling as the dog lifted his eyes wearily to meet his. “I know how you feel, Pads. The sexual tension is overwhelming...”

“Oh ha, bloody ha,” Potter muttered, glaring at his friend. Crossing his arms and stretching his feet out to prop them on a sliver of available space between Ron and Snuffles, he settled in for the ride. “Sexual tension! Pft, ridiculous…”

The train was well underway before anyone spoke again. They'd left the city and Draven contented himself to gaze through the window, letting his mind wander. What would Mrs. Malfoy think of him? Could he really be her son? A wizard?

Thoughts racing, he raised a hand and absently fingered the chain where it rested on his collarbone. Over the years, it had occurred to him that he may have stolen the ring. There was no way to know for sure, he could have been a pickpocket, a runaway, a criminal mastermind at eight years old. It was possible… But he preferred to believe it was a gift, to believe that someone, somewhere, loved him. Or, rather, someone in Paris loved him.

Glancing up when Ron stood, muttering about the trolley, Draven slid his gaze to Potter through his lashes. The man was gorgeous; dark hair, dark skin, dark mood, and the most vibrant eyes he'd ever seen. Granted, he hadn't seen many and most ranged the spectrum of blue. Still, they were captivating. And he was strong. Merlin, the way he'd held Draven when he stumbled off the broom, Potter’s hand at the small of Draven’s back as he guided him through the movements needed to steer the bit of wood between his thighs…

He tamped down the sigh that rose in his chest, then frowned. Merlin? He must have picked up the phrase from Potter, but what the bloody hell did a fictional wiza—

Sitting up straight as a thought occurred to him, he turned to Potter. “Was Merlin real?”

“What?”

“Merlin. Advisor to King Arthur, time traveller, overall paragon of good? Was he real? Did he exist?”

“Oh,” he frowned, digging in his pocket, and faced Draven. “Well, yeah. Look.”

Draven took the small stack of cards he offered. They were similar to playing cards, or the trading cards his schoolmates and the other boys at the orphanage were fond of. Well, except for the fact that the images moved. He started, but recovered quickly. These weren’t like the photograph of the Malfoys; that ran on a loop, a heartbeat frozen in time. These winked at him, waved at him. The first card was of a woman, curling golden hair pulled back in a series of loose knots down her back. “Helga Hufflepuff” scrolled across the bottom of the frame in delicate script.

“These are the witches and wizards who founded Hogwarts,” Potter was saying as Draven shuffled through the stack. “Well, not all of them.” Leaning over, he pointed at each card, in turn. “Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw. The others are just my favorites. Dumbledore is the current Headmaster of Hogwarts and then, of course, Morgan Le Fay and Merlin.”

Draven studied the card, tilting it one way, then the other, and watched the image of the wizard move, opposite to the motion, as if trying to keep his balance. He stopped, abruptly, and gave the image an apologetic smile. Merlin just winked, smirking at him.

“Yeah, I don't know if Merlin was like that when he was alive, but this card is a bit of an arse.” Potter accepted the stack when Draven handed it back, a crooked smile curving his lips for a moment before he seemed to realise it and schooled his features. “They, er… They move.”

“You don’t say?” He narrowed his eyes. Fuck, Potter was socially stunted, but Draven refused to let him ruin his train ride. He tried again. “What’s Hogwarts?”

“Merlin, I keep forgetting how little you know.” He heaved a sigh, relaxing back into his seat. “It’s a school. That castle, I mean. It’s where young witches and wizards go to learn how to use their magic; Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Draven snorted and Potter frowned, squinting his eyes behind the ridiculous, round frames. Clearing his throat, Draven waved him on. “I’m sorry. Please, you were saying?”

“I was saying… Hogwarts was founded by two witches and two wizards. They all wanted to provide a safe place to study magic, but each had different views of how to go about it. So, when they opened the school, they split the students into four houses, based on the criteria they valued. Ron and Pads, here—” he gestured toward the lump snoring under the window, “—were sorted into Gryffindor. I was a Slytherin. Ron’s girlfriend was in Ravenclaw—

“She's not my girlfriend, Harry!” Ron sighed, clearly not for the first time, then he caught Draco's eye and winked. “Yet…”

Harry laughed, rolling his eyes, but went on. “And our buddy, Neville, was in Hufflepuff.”

There was quite a bit to ask there, but Draven stuck with the most obvious. “A dog was sorted into a school house?” he asked incredulously.

“He is a very special dog,” Potter smirked.

“So,” Draven hummed. “Slytherin is where they put smug, speccy—” he broke off when Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. So, are you going to miss England?”

“Why would I miss England?”

“Well, since you’re moving to Paris, I assumed… what?” Potter was laughing at him, his lips quirked up on one side, his eyes dancing. It was better than the annoyance, but only marginally.

“I spent most of my childhood in Scotland. Besides, I’m not moving to Paris. I’m visiting. Wizarding transportation is usually much more efficient than this. We have Portkeys, the Floo Network, Apparition. Oh, and the Knight Bus. By train really is the slowest way to travel.”

“Oh.”

“No. My life is in England. The home I grew up in, the house my godfather gave me so I can be closer to London while I train to be an Auror. The Auror training programme,” he added with a nod, as if he’d almost forgotten.

“Your girlfriend,” Draven added for him. God, the man was perfect, wasn’t he? he thought. A house, another house, training to be—what he gathered must be—a magical policeman, why wouldn’t he also have a sweetheart tucked away? He gripped his ring loosely in his fingers and pulled it back and forth across its chain.

Potter frowned. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I mean, I did, but… I don’t know.” The words seemed to tumble out of him in a rush and Draven just listened, still fiddling idly with the chain, and tried to ignore the little bubble of spiteful glee rising in his chest, something he absolutely did not want to examine. “It was weird. She’s Ron’s baby sister and I’ve been helping look for Draco for— and I’m— I don’t know, it was just—” He broke off, abruptly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this,” he sighed, dropping his head back against the seat. “It’s not like I’m ever going to see you again after we get to Paris.”

Draven glared, shuffling lower in his seat and tried not to shiver in the sudden cold. So much for being nice. But, apparently, Potter wasn't done.

“Stop slouching, for Merlin’s sake! You’re supposed to be a high society pureblood; act like it.”

“Because I know exactly how pureblood wizards act,” Draven scoffed around the chattering of his teeth. His head was aching, a thin whine that seemed to originate from the air itself was drilling its way through his skull, and Potter just kept prattling on. Draven wrapped his arms around his torso, tucking his hands under his arms to warm them.

“I don't even know why we're doing this!” Potter was saying, his voice verging on hysterical. “No one will believe you’re Draco. You’re a rude, insufferable prig, it doesn’t even matter how much you loo—”

“Harry!” Ron crashed into the compartment, fear emanating from him. “Harry, we have to go!”

“What? Why?”

Snuffles raised his head, swiveling it between the three men nervously, and Draven rose to lay a reassuring hand on his back.

“Can't you feel it?” he asked, gaping incredulously. His lips were decidedly blue.

The lights lining the corridor flickered and a glance through the window showed Draven it was much darker than it should be. Potter's head was whipping from side to side, his breath coming out in silvery puffs. Why was it so cold?

“Dementors,” Potter gasped.

“I suggest we move to the baggage car.”

“What are Dementors?” Draven asked, but Ron and Potter were already collecting their bags and didn't answer.

“I suggest we get off this train. I thought the Ministry had them under control.”

“Yeah, yeah, Harry. We all know the Ministry is shite…”

“Come on, Your Grace.” Potter shoved Draven’s rucksack into his hand and Snuffles nudged his knee, whimpering.

Making their way hurriedly through the corridor, they dodged terrified passengers until they reached the baggage car, near the engine at the front of the train. A few times, Draven thought he saw a dark shadow pass over a window, vague impressions of black robes and gaping mouths. He ran faster.

“We should Apparate!” Potter shouted over a deafening crash that rattled the car as something slammed against the side of the train.

“What is that?”

“We should call the Aurors!” Ron cried.

Almost as soon as they entered the car, the coupling link connecting baggage car to the rest of the train snapped with a thunderous crack, leaving it to fall quickly behind the speeding engine. Lurching with the motion, Ron struggled to keep his balance while Potter was thrown against a wall and Draven was thrown against Potter. The door they'd passed through slammed open and as one, they turned, freezing in place.

A silhouette, taller than a man, robes swirling on an invisible wind, hovered in the doorway. Now that he could see it clearly, Draven noted the gaping mouth, but also, the empty eye sockets, dull greyish skin stretched over the contours of what was, otherwise, a human-like face. The cold was unbearable and the packed baggage car suddenly echoed with phantom screams. Draven cried out, turning his head away when a body fell at his feet. The sound of manic laughter, shouted curses, and exploding marble, as if from the end of a tunnel, filled his ears.

And it was so cold.

He tried to run, though he knew there was no escape, but a hand gripped his, holding him in place. He blinked, trying to clear the visions from his eyes, and followed the hand up the arm to find Potter. Determination hardened his features as he stared down the creature. Who was this man? Draven wondered briefly. The man with a short fuse but infectious laughter. The man who had searched for his lost friend for more than half of his life... It was pretty obvious to Draven that Potter didn't like him, which should say something. He didn't believe Draven was Draco Malfoy. And yet… He taught Draven to fly with such patience, held his hand with such fierce protectiveness.

Shifting to block Draven from the creature, still holding tightly to his hand, Potter lifted his wand in the other and aimed. “ _ Expecto Patronum _ !”

A mass of swirling white smoke sprang from the end of Potter’s wand, curling to form the massive rack, then neck, then the body of a great stag. It was followed by a small terrier, charging at the Dementor from Ron’s outstretched wand. A blood curdling scream rent the air and another form, a familiar, shaggy dog, joined the fray, stopping Draven's heart.

“Snuffles!” He lurched around Potter when the dog vanished but couldn't shake the firm grip. “Potter, let me go! Snuffles!”

Another hand clasped his shoulder, startling him. “Stay back, kid. They’re here for you. No need to make it easy for them, right?” he winked, baffling Draven further.

The stranger—Draven was positive he hadn't been there a moment before—released him and returned his attention to the matter at hand. The car lurched sickeningly and Draven glanced toward the door at the end. They were going much faster than they should be.

“Potter!” he shouted, pointing when Potter turned his way. “The engine!”

Potter swung around, redirecting his wand as he turned. “ _ Reducto _ !” he cried, the subsequent blast knocking him back a step. “Ron, Sirius!”

“Little busy here, squirt!” the man, who must be Sirius, replied from across the car.

Ron ran toward them just as another crash came from outside, pitching him head first into a pile of luggage. Draven watched in apprehension as his wand went flying. A glance told him Potter was still shooting spells at the other end of the car, chipping holes in the car. Sirius kept an eye on the sky, throwing more smoky creatures at the advancing Dementors.

“Ron!”

But Ron was scrambling, unable to regain his balance. Draven considered the move for only a second before he threw himself across the car, lunging at the wand rolling sporadically with the motion of the train. Weaving a little, he made his way back to Potter’s side.

“What do I do?” he asked.

Potter whipped around. “What are you doing? Where’s Ron?”

“He’s busy at the moment. What do I do?”

“It won’t work for you!”

“God damn it, Potter, show me!”

Narrowing his eyes, Potter demonstrated the motion needed. “You're aiming for the coupling links. The incantation is Reducto.”

“R-reducto?”

“Yes. On the count of three. Ready?”

“Yes.” Draven braced one hand on the wall, lifting his arm to aim while Potter opened the door, jolting briefly as warmth spread up his arm from the bit of wood in his hand.

“Lower,” Potter instructed and Draven adjusted the angle. The car shuddered again and Potter cursed. “Fuck. Three!”

“ _ Reducto _ !” they shouted in unison.

The force of it left Draven reeling. A tingling sensation sped through his blood, raced along his arm, and crashed from the borrowed wand to explode when it reached the links holding them to the runaway engine. It worked; the metal shattered, the shards swept away with the reckless motion of the speeding train. Breathless, Draven stared at the wand, brows drawn together in confusion.

“Draven! Draven?” Potter shook him, hands tight on his shoulders.

“Did I do that?” he asked, chest still heaving, an unusual warmth still spreading out from his heart. “It worked?”

“It worked,” Potter laughed, turning back toward the others, then snorted. Looking for the source of his amusement, Draven found Ron all but crawling up the wall, his freckles stark against the slight green tinge to his skin. Draven wasn't sure he could say he looked any better.

Sirius kept casting for a moment before finally facing them. "What was that?"

“We had to uncouple the car,” Potter replied. “The Dementors?”

“Falling back. How are we going to stop?”

“Er, didn't think that far…”

“That spell?” Draven asked. “What if you shoot it at the ground from the other side? Reverse thrusters?”

“Re- reverse what?” Ron asked, holding his stomach as he stumbled toward them.

“Reverse— Never mind, just shoot at the ground. The force should slow the car.”

“Do it,” Potter ordered, moving into position and aiming at the wall. The spell he cast vanished the wall and the door and Draven wondered why he hadn’t done that earlier. “Draven,” he called over his shoulder, “give Ron his wand back!”

Nodding, he reluctantly passed it back, returning Ron’s grateful smile. When he turned, though, Potter was pointing his wand at Draven’s chest. “Potter, what are you—”

“Take it. I can manage a decent wandless Reducto.”

The wand was flipped the wrong way round, the handle facing Draven. His heart lifted as he reached for it, anticipating that rush. Grinning, he joined the others, aimed. “On three?” Draven paused until all three men nodded sharply, then began counting. “One—”

“Three!” Potter interrupted with a wink and Draven laughed.

“ _ Reducto _ !”

The curses crashed to the ground, followed quickly by another wave, and another. The car was juddering dangerously and Potter’s hand found his, steadying him when he tilted toward the opening.

“Again!”

A few more rounds and the car was indeed slowing. Breaking rank, Sirius knelt to angle his wand beneath the car. “All right, boys. This is our stop.”

Ron nodded, a determined set to his jaw, and Potter gripped Draven's hand tighter.

“Potter!” Draven cried, tugging at Potter’s hand to pull him back when the motion threatened to throw him from the car before they were ready to jump. Suddenly face to face, jewel eyes locked to his, Draven cursed inwardly.

“If we live through this,” Potter murmured, closer somehow, “remind me to thank you.” Wrapping an arm around Draven’s waist, he held his breath and, when the final count sounded, jumped, dragging Draven with him.

Chapter Six

“I hate trains” Potter’s voice insisted from the swirling green orb. “Remind me never to take the train again.”

“No!” Bellatrix screeched. “No! Impossible!” She surged to her feet, hands flying to tear at her hair as she paced the cramped room

Sniffling, Wormtail shifted his weight from foot to foot. While Bellatrix raged, he let his mind drift to the meal he could have found, had he simply remained in Wiltshire. The years in hiding had not been kind to him; his skin sagged where it had once stretched taut, his hair was falling out in clumps. Stress, he thought. It's a killer.

“Mistress, relax.”

“Relax? Have you lost your mind, Wormtail? This is the last thread! Once my dear nephew is gone, the Dark Lord will rise.” She marched toward him, seemingly growing taller with every inch he shrank. “Where is your loyalty, you snivelling worm? No! No, he has to be destroyed…”

“O-of c-course, mistress! It’s the only way. The Dark Lord’s return is o-our only o-o-objective.”

“See that you remember that, you miserable rodent,” Bellatrix snarled before swinging away from him to resume pacing, gesturing wildly as she went.

“Never said I weren’t loyal,” Wormtail sniffed, crossing his arms with a petulant huff. “Who gave him the Potters? Me. Who found the potion to resurrect him? Me! Weren’t my fault he had to go and get himself killed before his bloody horcruxes were properly hidden. Weren’t my fault Regulus went turncoat with the Malfoys. But, oh, sure, blame the rat. What the heck, we’re easy targets…”

“What are you muttering about?”

“D-Draco Malfoy, mistress,” he stammered, lifting one trembling hand in a meek salute. “Ju-just wishing I could dispose of him for you, mistress. I— I’d— well, I’d certai— and then, of course, I coul—”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. That suited him just fine. “Oh-ho,” she giggled. From the look of sheer glee in her sunken eyes, he’d wager she had an idea, which was confirmed a moment later. “Oh, Wormtail, I’ve just the thing. Something deliciously cruel. Something worthy of the Dark Lord himself…”

In a flash, her hand darted out, twisted in the front of his robes. “Come, Wormtail,” was all she said before Apparating away, dragging him with her.

-

When they finally stopped rolling, Harry’s stomach continued its somersaults for a while afterward. Draven groaned beneath him. Disentangling himself, Harry stood stiffly while the others caught their breath.

With a groan and a muttered “I'm too old for this,” Sirius sank to the ground. He twisted his torso to the left, then right, as he stretched out his aching muscles. Ron nudged him with one booted foot.

“Come off it, Pads. You'll never be too old for anything,” he insisted fondly. Digging into his satchel, he pulled out a slab of chocolate wrapped in cheesecloth. He broke off a chunk and handed it to Harry.

“What the fuck was that?” Draven panted, absently accepting the hunk of chocolate Ron offered. He was bent double, hands resting on his thighs, his hair falling loosely to obscure his drawn features. Turning, he shook the hair back and straightened, eyeing Sirius suspiciously. “And who the hell are you?”

Sirius snorted but smiled gratefully when Ron passed him a piece next. “That was a Dementor and I'm Sirius Black.” After the first revitalising bite of the chocolate, he lifted his eyes to meet Draven’s and smirked. “Padfoot. Or Snuffles, if you like.”

Harry bit his lip on the laugh that wanted to escape when Draven gasped, his cheeks colouring, and shook his head in disbelief. “You’re a werewolf?” Pointing an accusing finger, he stumbled back a step.

Harry caught him and held him at arm’s length. His hands tingled where they rested on narrow shoulders and his chest tightened at the memory of Draven's solid weight pressed against him on the train, that soft hair in his face… he didn't particularly care to deal with that experience again. 

Pushing those thoughts away, Harry scoffed. “Sirius, a werewolf?”

But Sirius snarled. “Do you see a full moon, kid? Did I try to rip your throat out? I'm not a bloody werewolf—Ron, shut your mouth.” He levelled a hard look at him, then at Harry, in warning. “One word to Moony and I’ll hex you both into next week.” Ron gulped but stayed silent. Harry just laughed harder.

“Moony’s different,” Harry shrugged. “We know that, Sirius.”

Sirius scowled, then turned back to Draven. “I’m an Animagus. I guess you’d know it as shapeshifter, ‘cept I’ve only got the one shape.”

“So, this Moony is a werewolf?” Draven frowned, stepping away from Harry. He tugged self-consciously at the hem of his shirt and ran a hand through his hair.“That's the second time you've mentioned one right after the other.” 

“Remus Lupin—” Sirius said, nodding. “Moony— is my husband. He was bitten as a child. He's not violent,” he explained, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“But he's different from your average werewolf,” Ron interjected. “He takes a potion that keeps him from becoming violent. Not every werewolf is willing to do that.”

Brows knitted together, Draven nodded slowly. "Okay," he said finally.

“We should get going.” 

Harry clapped his hands together once, then patted his pockets for a moment, looking for his wand. Draven dangled it under his nose, clearing his throat. With muttered thanks, Harry took it before sweeping up their luggage and shrinking the two small trunks. He pocketed them and passed Draven and Ron their bags.

Draven jumped when Sirius shimmered, shifting into his Animagus form, and Harry tried not to be charmed by the way he eyed the dog he hadn't hesitated to befriend. Hitching his satchel onto his shoulder, he turned and began to follow the tracks, heading in the direction they were travelling, presumably south.

The feeling was ridiculous. Okay, so Draven was handsome, there was no denying that. But he was infuriating. Snooty in a way Harry would have thought orphans incapable of…

Orphans. Maybe he was a war orphan. And there were other families that resembled the Malfoys. The point was, he thought, there were other wizards who could have left behind a child. He could even be a Muggleborn. There was still no logical reason to believe this was Draco Malfoy, despite the fact that he was clearly a wizard. He could be one of any number of other people.

Slanting a glance, Harry watched him. Draven moved with a sort of innate grace. Even his tattered denims and scuffed Muggle shoes couldn't hide it; it radiated from him with every step he took over the rocky terrain. There was something delicate about him, something he couldn't have guessed at when the man was pressed up against him, every inch hard and lean.

Yet, his laughter was light, melodic. His fear was palpable, sincere. If it hadn't been, Harry might have suspected some duplicity. He knew nothing of magic but was able to wield foreign wands? That seemed unlikely but, was it less likely than the possibility that he was just an excellent actor. Yes. How had he gotten to Hogwarts? How had he found his way to Hogsmeade?

Padfoot, of course. Sirius said he'd led him, but why was he so close? The orphanage was just north, he'd said. That was one hell of a coincidence, and Harry just didn't buy it. He'd keep an eye on this strange wizard.

“So,” Draven began, conversationally. “Are we going to walk to Paris?”

“We'll take a boat in Brighton,” Ron answered.

“Oh. So then, we're walking to Brighton?”

“We should call the Knight Bus,” Harry suggested, glaring at the ground as he walked a little ahead of the others.

“What's the Knight Bus?”

“It's a bus,” Ron said, simply. “I think we should walk, though. We need the time to plan.”

“Plan?” Harry halted, turned to wait for Ron to catch up. “Plan for what?”

“Come on Harry, you know Hermione is Narcissa’s guard dog. We have to start training him no—”

“What?” Draven interrupted. He stopped as well, dropping a hand on Padfoot’s head without thinking. “Who's Hermione?”

“Who is Hermione? Only the cleverest witch in the world,” Ron sighed. “She really is something else. All that hair… It has to be big, her hair, to hold her brain.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Ron had always been a bit mad for their Ravenclaw schoolmate. Not that she ever gave him the time of day, but it didn't stop Ron from mooning over her. She wandered around Hogwarts with her nose in a book, crashing into things, and people occasionally. In second year, she'd wandered so far into the castle, Dumbledore had sent out a search party when she hadn't returned by midnight. She'd fallen asleep in an alcove, her book still opened across her lap.

“What do you mean, ‘guard dog?’ Is she a werewolf, too?”

Ron chuckled. “No. She's Narcissa’s personal assistant.” Sighing again, Ron danced away, humming to himself.

“I thought we were going to see Mrs. Malfoy…” Draven said, slowly. “Why are we—” Realisation dawned, only to be chased away and replaced with a scowl. “Potter?”

Harry held up both hands, backing away slowly. “It's not so bad, really. Hermione’s great, you'll love her!”

“Why do I have to meet her?” he demanded, jamming his hands on his hips.

“Well, she may be screening people claiming to be Draco…”

“What? No. No, no, no. No one ever said I had to  _ prove _ I was Draco Malfoy!” He spun away, lifted his hands to tangle in his hair.

“It's just a precau—”

“No, Potter.” Whirling back around, he jabbed a disapproving finger at Harry. “I can show up, I can even look nice. But you want me to  _ lie _ ?”

Harry grit his teeth. “I'm not asking you to lie. I think it should be up to Narcissa to determine you're not her son. In order to do that, you need the opportunity to actually see her. Besides, you should know what you're getting into, don't you think?”

Draven growled low in his throat and marched past him. Giving in, Harry caught his arm. “Come on, Your Grace. What's the harm? Don't you want to find out who you are?”

Draven glared, shaking off his grip and stalked toward the bank of a river nearby. He sank to the ground, picked up a rock, and chucked it into the lazy current.

“You have no tact, Harry,” Sirius’ voice scolded from behind him.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You could try patience…”

“And what would you know about patience?” he scoffed, then walked away before Sirius could answer.

-

“Tell me, Draven,” Sirius said, sitting down beside him. “Who are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who are you?” he asked again, bending to rest his elbows on his knees. “Ron, over there, he’s a Gryffindor. Through and through. He's brave and steadfast, he's a brilliant strategist but still rushes in, sometimes.” He dropped one hand to pick lazily at the crabgrass growing along the bank and flicked bits into the river. “I'm an Animagus. The most important thing I've done with my life was befriend a Potter and a werewolf. Well, and raising Harry, but I may have fallen short in a few areas.”

Draven snorted, sliding a glance at the man. “I had it backwards. I thought Snuffles was a smug bastard because Potter was a smug bastard.” Sirius stared for a moment, then threw his head back on a bark of laughter.

“Oh, kid,” he wheezed. “I like you. And you're right, Harry can be a smug bastard. But he's unflinchingly loyal. He misses Draco. This is hard for him, especially considering how much you look like him. He got more of his parents in him than he does anyone who helped raise him, and they were the best friends anyone could ask for.” He stared into the shallow water flowing lazily in the afternoon sun, then turned to face him again. “So, Draven, who are you?”

Draven frowned. “I don't know anymore. I mean, I've never known where I came from, who I am in that sense. But I thought I knew myself. In the last two days, I've found out that magic is real, witches ride broomsticks, and that I could do both… it's rather a lot to take in.”

“It is.”

They sat in silence for some time before Draven spoke again. “I'm a wizard.”

“That you are.”

“I'm… an orphan.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I'm a skinny little nobody with no future and no past.” Frustrated, he picked up another rock and threw it, relishing the plunk with a dark sense of satisfaction.

“You wanna know what I see?”

“Not particularly.”

Sirius ignored him. “I see a passionate young man. Intelligent, determined. You have kept Harry on his toes since he met you. That's not the easiest of tasks.”

“He hates me.”

“No, he doesn't. He's… He's afraid of getting close. To anyone, really. He's lost a lot.”

“And all on the same night,” Ron agreed, lowering himself on Draven's other side. “He'll come around, yo—”

“So,” Potter clapped his hands to Ron and Sirius’ shoulders, pushing his head between them to address Draven. “Are you ready to get started?”

His spine stiffened and Draven couldn't help but doubt Ron's assurances. With a pointed glare at Potter, he rose, stepped over Sirius, and started walking back the way they'd come.

“Draven,” Ron called, rising and shooting a glare of his own at Potter. “There's nothing left for you back there, mate,” he reasoned. “Everything is in Paris.”

Draven considered that. It was true; he didn't even feel the desire to go back. And it wasn't as if some basic knowledge about the Malfoy family would fool the boy's mother. This didn't change their arrangement.

Nodding, Draven turned to face the other three men. “All right, gentlemen—and Potter. Where do we begin?”

-

So, they walked. 

Between the three of them, they had compiled a pretty complete history of the Malfoy family. Potter and Sirius were sporadically Apparating back and forth from London, collecting books and paintings, anything that would aid them in Draven’s education.

After a while, Draven felt his enthusiasm, such as it was, beginning to flag. Aside from the sheer volume of information, he was discouraged to find much of it was unsavoury. From Armand Malfoy all the way down to Lucius Malfoy, the second, the family history was both dark and gruesome. 

The others were away, again, and Draven hoped they'd return with something better than invaders and Muggle-killers. He didn’t know how much more he could take. 

“So,” he began, drawing Ron’s attention. “This is what I need to learn to convince Mrs. Malfoy I’m her son?” Shoving his hands into his pockets, Draven kicked at a stone in his path. “Is it too late to turn back?”

“Well, no, if that’s what you want. But, there’s still more to this story.”

“Oh, boy! Another ancestor accused of hexing the queen of England?”

Ron laughed, hitching his satchel higher on his shoulder. Pausing, he lifted a hand to block the sun long enough to survey the desolate landscape around them, then abruptly dropped to sit on the side of the road. Draven cocked a hip and eyed him as he pulled out his wand, conjured a glass, then filled it with another spell. 

“You know,” he said. “All families have their dark secrets. The Malfoys just… weren’t as secretive about theirs. But, if you are Draco…” Here, he paused to drain the glass in a long, greedy swallow. “Then, you and me, we’re cousins.”

“Cousins?” Hesitantly, Draven relaxed a bit. The family couldn’t be all bad if it included this warm, friendly man, right?

“Yep. My granddad married a Black.”

“Black?” Taken aback, he thought of Sirius. Sirius Black, he’d said. “There are Blacks in the Malfoy family?”

“Well, yeah. Narcissa is a Black, Sirius’ cousin. She had two sisters; Bellatrix Lestrange and Andromeda Tonks.” Ron sighed, cast the spell to refill the glass, and passed it to Draven. “A while back, Andromeda was disowned for marrying a Muggle-born. Didn’t last, not after the war, but that kind of thing happened a lot back then. A lot of the old pureblood families thought like that. Some still do, but there’s been a lot of progress.”

“Have the Malfoys made progress?” Draven asked. He lowered his gaze and turned the glass in his hands, unsure whether or not he wanted to hear the answer.

“Well, they helped win the war, saved Harry’s life. The other Potters too.”

Scoffing, Draven shrugged. “That doesn’t mean they’ve changed. It doesn’t change what’s inside to switch sides in a war. Maybe they just realised their side was losing.”

“Nah, Voldemort had it in the bag. See, there was a prophecy that said only ‘the chosen one’ could defeat him and he got it in his head that it was talking about Harry. Who knows, it could have been. But Lucius refused to kill an innocent kid, even if his mum was Muggle born. I'd say that speaks pretty highly about what was inside him.”

“Maybe.” Sighing, Draven turned at the sound the others returning. “Please tell me you've brought something pleasant?” he begged, frowning when Potter winced. 

“Well,” Sirius began. “There isn't much, to be honest.”

“So I've heard,” he said, gesturing toward Ron. “All right, let's get on with it.”

“Alright, now. Who's this?” Potter held up a painting of a rotund man with too little hair and too much ruffled collar. Draven groaned. 

“Potter, you showed me that painting an hour ago!”

He frowned and turned the painting to study it. “Did I? Well, then I guess you should be able to tell me who it is.”

Draven found himself wishing the smug smile and mischievous sparkle of amusement in Potter’s eyes didn't suit him quite so well. Pushing the thought away, he focused on the painting. The man wrinkled his nose and sneered at Draven, raising one eyebrow in an oily facsimile of Draven's own expression of disdain. 

“Septimus Malfoy,” Draven intoned, lifting his chin defiantly. “Born in July 7th, 1777. He was an advisor to the Minister for… God, this is ridiculous.”

“Is that an Office in the Ministry? I don't recall hearing of—”

“Oh, get stuffed, Potter! I'd like to see you in my position. My whole life, I'm told to get my head out of the goddamned clouds, and suddenly, here you are, telling me there's magic, and I'm a wizard, and there's a bloody Minister for Magic, and you expect me to just, what, exactly? Nod and recite that nonsense.”

“You know magic is real,” Potter argued, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know you're a wizard. For Merlin’s sake, you cast a spell!”

“Oh! And then I have to learn all of this nonsense about the fucking Malfoy family. Some heritage you want me to inherit! Murderers and monsters! Is there one good thing about this bloody family, other than the Weasleys?”

“Draco.”

“What?” Draven answered, automatically, then jerked back, stunned. “Wh-what? What are you talking about?” he tried again. 

“Draco was the best part of that family,” Potter repeated, his eyes narrowed and dark. “Draco was the new generation, the hope for the future. His parents turned away from all of this history and tradition and prejudice to give him a chance in the world they helped to build for him, for me. To avoid making the mistakes of their ancestors, you bloody well have to learn them first.”

Draven's jaw hung slack, his arms limp at his sides. He didn't know what to say. The vehemence, the determination in those eyes was enough to still any argument he could possibly make, if he had a single argument to make. Which he didn't. Potter was right, of course, although that was tough to swallow. 

Closing his mouth, Draven blinked for a moment, then crossed his arms. “Septimus Malfoy was the advisor to the Minister for Magic and often bragged that the Minister was ‘little more than a puppet.’ I suppose mind control spells will do that.”

Sirius’ head snapped up from where he was shuffling through stiff, aged documents written on the same heavy paper Ron carried in his satchel. 

“Harry,” he whispered. “I don't believe we told him that…”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course we did.” Turning back to Draven, he stowed the painting under his arm. “I've been thinking. Now might also be a good time to teach you a few basic spells too, if you're interested.”

For a moment, Draven remembered that feeling, the power rushing through his veins, exploding from his fingertips. Yes, learning magic was something he wanted. If he never truly discovered who he was, he now knew he was magical, and that was more than he'd ever dared to hope. 

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing around the odd little lump in his throat. “Yeah, I'm interested.”

“Good.”

Chapter 7

By the time they reached the first residential neighbourhood, Harry had already conceded to taking a break from the lessons. Draven was unlikely to retain any information that was forcefully shoved into his thick skull, so there was no point in trying. Glancing around at the quaint road lined with squat houses, he decided against a disillusionment charm. No one would think twice about their little band, as long as the brooms were kept concealed and Pads remained in his Animagus form. 

“So, where do we go from here?” Ron asked, stilling for a moment to fall into step beside Harry. He kept one eye on Draven and Padfoot, but nudged Harry with one elbow when he didn't answer. “It's getting late. Maybe we should look for a place to sleep. And eat.”

Harry sighed. 

“You're right. There's no way we'd be able to get a boat at this hour anyway.”

“I don't suppose you know where the Wizarding district is around here?”

“Not a clue. We'll find some cover and ask Sirius.”

Nodding, Ron shifted his long legs into a jog to catch up to the others. 

Sirius, of course, knew of an inn just a few miles west, so they set out in that direction. 

“You have money for this, right?” Draven asked while Ron and Sirius argued about which direction to turn. “I don't have the money for a magical bed and breakfast.”

“Of course I have the money.” A soft scent wafted on the breeze and Harry breathed deeply, letting it wash over him for a moment. 

Earth and something sweet; it was becoming a familiar scent, ever present on their journey, and Harry was a little afraid he knew the origin. Glancing at Draven, he steeled himself against it. It wouldn't do to become attached to the git. Either Narcissa would accept him as Draco Malfoy or she would see through their farce but, either way, Draven would not remain an active part of Harry's life. He couldn't. 

“I think it's a reasonable question, Potter,” Draven was saying. “Who's funding this operation?” 

“I am,” he growled, aiming a vicious kick at a shrubbery, as they passed. 

Draven paused, taken aback. “Why?” he asked. 

“Because somebody has to and I'm the only one who can afford it.”

“You can afford to flit off around the country?” 

“Yes.”

“And you still dress like that?” Something sparkled in his eyes as Draven raked them over Harry's outfit. 

It took all of his willpower to avoid glancing down at faded denims and his t-shirt that screamed “We Will Rock You” around the Queen logo. Harry refused to defend his wardrobe choices. Or any of his other choices, for that matter. And who was Draven to talk? He’d changed his clothes before they left the Manor, but no one would guess it. 

The torn denims had been replaced by torn denims, the ratty blue t-shirt was now a ratty green t-shirt. When the sun began to set, he'd added a hooded jumper to the mix, frayed at the hems and clearly hand made. The pattern was a bit lopsided and the rainbow of coloured yarn was dulled with age. On his feet, he wore a set of battered trainers that were clearly on the outs. 

“Hey, I can't help it,” Draven cried, a playful smirk twisting his lips. “I can't afford new clothes. What's your excuse?” 

The light in his eyes struck Harry, finally, and he realised Draven was teasing him. He thought of the robes Ron packed and grinned at the thought of seeing him in them. They were bound to look vastly out of place around the thin shoulders and half starved torso. Lucius Malfoy wore fine robes and he doubted they would suit this waif. 

“Yes, well, I happen to value comfort over fashion.” he countered, training his eyes on the pavement below him. 

“It's for the best,” Draven sniffed, trailing along behind Harry. “I doubt the world could handle seeing you in anything remotely presentable…” 

Harry let that slide, deciding he didn’t really want to know what it meant. Ahead of them, the soft glow of candlelight shone through the early evening gloom as they approached The Temporal Bard. The sloping roof was just visible in the darkness and the walls shone orange where the light poured from the windows. It was quaint, to say the least, and Harry just knew he’d hear the story behind its name before the night was out.

“That’s it?” Draven asked as they caught up to Ron and Sirius in the doorway of the inn.

“That’s it,” Sirius nodded.

“It looks pretty small…”

“Oh, just you wait,” Ron chuckled. “Weird name, though.”

“It’s actually funny,” Sirius began, and Harry groaned, pushing his way through the door.

-

“Draven!” 

Turning with a start, Draven faced Potter as he strode down the corridor toward him. He held a bundle of pale, blue fabric clutched at his side and a wide grin split his face; he looked happier than Draven had seen him and he had to remind himself to breathe. If Potter was going to start smiling at him, this trip would be harder than Draven expected. 

“Here.” Potter shoved the fabric into Draven's arms and puffed out his chest, obviously pleased with himself. 

“There are plenty of blankets, Potter,” he teased, shaking the thing out to determine what it was. 

The fabric was clearly expensive; it flowed through his hands like water, shimmering in the dim lights lining the corridor. Holding it up, he could see that it was a garment, similar to the robes Ron and Potter were wearing when he met them, but finer and likely considerably more fashionable. 

“What is this?” he asked, running a finger along the embroidered hem of one flowing sleeve. 

“Robes.” Reaching forward, Potter pinched the collar between his thumb and forefinger, absently rubbing the material. “You need something decent to wear when we meet with Hermione.”

Draven eyed the robes longingly. They were gorgeous, aside from their vastly foreign nature, and he definitely wondered how they would feel against his skin. But… 

“I can't accept this, Potter.” Sighing, he offered it back. “It's far too expensive, I can't take it.”

Potter shook his head, lifted his hands away. “I didn't buy them, if that's what you think. They belonged to Draco's father.”

“His…”

“Yeah. Er… Ron packed them for you to wear.”

“So, this was...” Draven didn't know what to say. He held a piece of history. A history that just might be his. His eyes pricked with oncoming tears and he ducked his head, fighting them and the waver in his voice. “Thank you Pot- Harry.” Looking up at him, Draven smiled to see the shock written across his strong features. That was worth the uncertainty he felt, so he said it again. “Thank you, Harry.”

Potter scrubbed a hand across his neck, the first sign of humility Draven had seen, and his cheeks darkened. “Well, you know, Ron was really—”

“Of course!” Draven laughed. “I'll just thank him then, since all you did was bring it to me.” He felt a jolt of triumph when Potter frowned, and winked. 

Rolling his eyes, Potter waved a hand dismissively. “Just try it on,” he grumbled, then turned and headed toward the stairs. 

Still laughing, Draven let himself back into the room he was sharing with Sirius. It was still a bit odd to know the man was also the dog, but he was adjusting. Worst case scenario, he was lying in the forest between the orphanage and town, hallucinating as he died from heatstroke. 

Of course, that possibility didn't strike him as pleasant, so he shook it off and began to change into the robes. The robes that belonged to the man who may or may not have been his father. Given to him by the man who, whether or not he was Draven's childhood friend, was throwing his whole life into a tailspin. 

Harry Potter. 

Moody, brooding, brilliant, gorgeous Harry Potter. The man couldn't tell if he wanted to befriend Draven or send him packing, but had trusted him with his wand—something he was coming to understand was a very big deal—and brought him fancy robes, and fucking smiled at him. 

Groaning, Draven slung his shirt to the bed and picked up the silky robes. 

Fucked, he thought. This whole situation, and Draven himself, was fucked. 

-

“Slow down, kid,” Sirius chuckled, drawing Harry’s attention to where Ron was steadily, and quickly, working his way through a large helping of shepherd's pie. 

“Hey,” Ron scowled, looking up from the chess board sat between himself and Sirius. “It’s been hours since we’ve eaten.”

“Yes, well,” a voice drawled, from behind Harry, and he whipped around. “That’s no reason you shouldn’t chew here and there,” Draven was saying, eyes sparkling as he teased Ron.

“There he is!” Sirius exclaimed, rising to inspect him.

He stood a foot from their table in the quiet dining hall of the inn, one hip cocked and a smirk lingering at the corner of his lips. Harry was right; the robes were too big for him. The material swam around him, sagging at the shoulders and hips, and Draven looked smaller, thinner, under the weight of it. Unfortunately, that was all he had been right about; They absolutely suited him. From his waist, to his ankles, the robes flowed in rippling waves. The colour made his eyes shine, and brought a hint of life to his pale cheeks. Although that could have been embarrassment. Damn it.

Ron made a rude gesture, but grinned. “Looking good, mate.”

“You think?” He turned, trying to see himself from the back, and the robes glittered like sunlight on an ocean wave. “It’s a little loose.”

“Beautiful,” Harry breathed, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh.

Draven narrowed his eyes but was distracted by Sirius’ hand on his shoulder. Turning to face him, he lifted his face, smiled.

“No worries. It’s nothing a little spellwork can’t fix. Hold still.” With a few flicks of his wand, Sirius tightened the seam at Draven’s waist and shoulders, slimming it over his chest, and adding a little length to the sleeves. “There we are. Now, you are dressed for a ball.” Grinning, he set music flowing through the room, then shoved his wand into his back pocket and offered his hand to Draven. “And you must learn to dance for one, as well.”

Laughing, Draven took his hand, allowing Sirius to guide him around tables until they came to a small section of empty space before the enormous fireplace along the back wall. Harry watched, captivated, as Sirius positioned Draven’s hand at his waist before taking the other and beginning a tentative waltz.

“He looks great, yeah?” Ron asked, but Harry couldn’t hear him. Draven was looking at his feet, laughing as he stumbled over them, his head flying back on the explosion of sound. “Yep, I think this is going to be perfect. Don’t you?”

Still unaware Ron had spoken, or of the look his friend levelled his way, Harry stood, made his way through the dining room, and rested one hip on a nearby table as he continued to watch from this closer viewpoint.

“One, two, three. One, two, three,” Draven counted, laughing. 

Another time, another world—and another blond—tugged at Harry, but he pushed the thoughts away and allowed himself to smile. Draven was picking it up, quickly. His bare feet fell gracefully, and with clear intention, as if he had danced this waltz his entire life. 

Glancing up, he shot Harry a bright smile, then stuck out his tongue, startling a laugh from him. At the sound, Sirius looked up, coming to a halt. 

“Harry!” he called. “Come, here.” 

Harry stood up straight, but shook his head, a little dazed. “No, no I—”

“Yes, come here. He needs to practice with someone his own age.” As if the matter was settled, he tugged Draven toward Harry, grinning. “Mind his feet, now. We never could teach him to dance properly.”

With a grimace, Harry stepped forward and accepted the hand Sirius thrust into his. Draven wasn't looking at him, colour rising in his cheeks as he stared at the floorboards. But, he stepped forward, aligning himself before Harry and lifting one hand to his waist.

Harry’s breath caught, his mind circling lazily. “Why do I have to be the girl?” he asked, breathlessly.

The music began again, and Draven quirked a sly grin. “Oh, you are definitely not a girl, Potter.”

Harry laughed when those cheeks darkened further, and squeezed Draven’s shoulder gently. “I suppose that’s good to know. You probably wouldn’t know what to do with me if I was.” He was aiming for light, teasing, but there was a question buried under the words. Terrified, he waited for the answer.

“I already don’t know what to do with you,” he murmured, finally lifting his eyes to Harry’s. He stepped closer, on the next turn, and Harry swallowed.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Draven began, taking a deep breath. Harry held his, waiting for him to continue. “You’re abrasive, to say the least,” he said, and Harry frowned. “Completely confusing. I mean, one moment, you’re kind and helpful. Did you know you smiled at me, earlier? And when you taught me to ride the broom, and cast spells! But, usually, you’re a complete arse.”

Harry stilled, taking a half step back to look at Draven, confused when he sucked in another breath and kept going.

“You’re rude, and self-centered, and short-tempered, and entirely too attractive. So, you’re right. I have no idea what to do with you, but…” 

Harry’s eyes widened, but he waited for Draven to continue. When it didn’t happen, he groaned. “But what?”

“Well,” he bit off, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down his nose at Harry. “I could think of a few things.”

“You could?” Harry grinned, feeling the ground start to still beneath him. This was certainly better than insults. At ease, again, he slipped an arm around Draven’s thin waist, and took his hand again. “Such as?”

“For starters,” Draven smirked. “A swift kick would do you well.” 

Harry laughed, a deep, rolling laugh that started in his belly and startled him. When was the last time he’d laughed like that? Well, he’d just have to go with it then, he thought as he swung them into motion again. The tempo changed, seemed to follow their lead as they spun in tighter, quicker circles.

“Okay, what else?”

“Well…” Swaying closer, Draven allowed his eyes to flutter closed, just for a moment, before he smiled and looked up into Harry's eyes. 

The smile grew, widening and becoming more wicked than Harry ever expected to see, and he had all of thirty seconds to appreciate it before— 

“Fuck, Draco, what the hell?”

Draven brought his heel down on Harry’s toes, throwing off their rhythm and sending them both wobbling for balance for a moment. Harry scowled, but Draven was laughing, doubled over and clutching his sides.

“What?” Harry demanded, crossing his arms. It didn’t hurt; Draven was barefoot and Harry wore sturdy dragonhide boots, but the intention was there. And Draven was still laughing.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me Draco, Potter,” he said, finally stuttering through his giggles. “If you aren’t careful, you’re going to fall for your own con.”

“Con?” Harry deflated a little. “Who said anything about a con?”

“Oh, please. What exactly do you take me for?” Draven straightened, crossed his own arms, and brushed an invisible speck from the sleeve of his extravagant robes. “You want to take a person you don’t believe, for one second, is the right person, dress him up, and pass him off as the wealthy dowager’s long-lost son? Aren’t there tests that can be done? Magical DNA?”

Harry grit his teeth. “Magical signature. And we can’t test for it. Draco never performed magic before he disappeared, and you have never been registered.”

“Oh, convenient. What about blood?”

“What about blood? Look, call it what you want. Either Narcissa will realise you aren’t Draco, or she’ll believe you are. Either way, this stops.”

“But she won’t realise I am Draco?”

“Draco is gone.”

“Then why do you keep calling me by his name?”

“I— I don’t… know…”

Draven sighed and rocked back on his heels. “Of course you don’t. Goodnight, Potter.”

Harry watched him as he wound his way through the tables and around the dining room’s entrance toward the stairs. He wasn't sure what just happened, and less sure what to do about it. 

Chapter 8

Sunrise the next morning found Draven seated on the wide ledge of a window in the dining room, absently swishing and flicking the way Potter had shown him. A fire roared in the fireplace and, throughout the night, he'd seen the strange comings and goings of many strange people.

The first time the flames had surged, turning a vibrant green, he'd nearly fallen from his perch. He sat, frozen, as a stout man in a violent purple cloak stepped from the hearth, brushing soot from his shoulders, muttering about the commute.

It wasn't such a shock the next time. A young woman, barely older than him, wearing the telltale uniform of kitchen staff and the weary expression of the habitually overworked, shuffled into the room and toward the fireplace. She took her time, shouting her goodbyes and instructions for the night crew, before dipping her hand into a large pot beside the grate.

Draven couldn't see what she took from it before she was tossing it into the flames and giving what seemed to be an address. But the flames turned green again, bathing the room in an eerie glow, and she stepped into them, whirling and disappearing within.

Others came, repeating the process, but didn't enter the flames. Some sank to their knees and leaned toward the grate, others sat themselves in squishy armchairs and crossed their legs, speaking to the fire as if sitting across from guests at tea time. And, of course, the flames spoke back.

He didn't ask, didn't try to get a better look. He was supposed to be a part of this world, and understood that any reaction he gave would paint him as an outsider. But he could and did listen and watch. And, frankly, it was better than thinking.

During the lulls, he berated himself. What had he been thinking? Harry may not like him, but that was no excuse for his behaviour. The man was still clearly grieving the loss of his friend, and projecting the memory of him onto Draven.

It was heartbreaking, but understandable. And maybe he was going about this the wrong way, but who was Draven to judge him for it? He was going along, wasn't he? And he had no intention of turning back. This was his first real chance to discover something, anything, about his past and he wouldn't waste it.

Fuck. He stomped on Harry’s foot. Very mature, Draven.

He had no idea what possessed him to do such a thing. One moment, he was leaning in, absolutely intent on kissing him, and the next…

Fuck.

All he knew was that, in that moment, it felt like the right thing to do. But Harry… He'd called him “Draco.” Again.

And, fuck, but that hurt. Draven was already getting that ridiculous back and forth. Harry couldn't figure out how he felt about Draven and, when he decided to like him, he called him by the wrong fucking name.

The worst of it was, at those moments, he wished he was Draco. He may have a dark family history, but Draco Malfoy had a mother willing to scour the world looking for him, friends who dedicated their lives to searching, and Harry Potter. Harry fucking Potter, who looked at him with wonder in his eyes; who called out his name when he was in danger, and when they were playing, and—

“Fuck!”

“Maybe later, Your Grace.”

Draven jolted, squinting through the dim dining room, into the emerald eyes that swam through his mind. Swallowing, he nodded to Harry. He stood a short distance away, fingertips plucking nervously at today's rock n’ roll t-shirt. He shuffled from foot to foot, opening and closing his mouth several times, but no sound came out, until—

“I'm sorry.”

Harry's head whipped up and he scanned the room, quickly, before he seemed to realise who spoke. “You're—?”

“Yes, Harry,” Draven stood, moving hesitantly toward him. “I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, I—”

“No, Draven. I shouldn't be asking this of you. You aren't Draco. Narcissa deserves better from me, and you deserve better than this.”

“Harry—”

He took a step closer, folding his arms over his chest. “I'm taking you home.”

“Harry, wait a minute!”

“I won't obliviate you, since you do seem to be a wizard, but—”

“Goddammit, Potter, shut up.”

Harry's mouth snapped closed and Draven released a groan of frustration, shoving his hands through his hair.

“I'm not going back there,” he insisted. “there's nothing there for me but a nothing job and a nothing life.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He shot a glare and took a step forward, putting himself firmly in the other man's space. “I'm going to France, I'm meeting Narcissa and, if I'm not Draco Malfoy,” he all but shouted, “I'm going to keep looking for who I am. You can't take that away from me just because you believe he's gone!”

“Are you finished?” Harry asked, his eyebrows raised.

“No!” Draven shouted, then cringed. “Yes. No. You can't keep calling me Draco.”

Harry flinched, ducking his head. 

“I mean it, Potter!” Draven drove one finger into Harry's chest. “I want to believe, when I lean in to kiss you, that it's me you're—”

His eyes dark, Harry snaked one arm around his waist, hauling him across the last few inches between them, and crushed his lips against Draven's. Every thought fled his mind as magic crackled in the air around them. The acrid scent of it stung his nostrils, followed immediately by the musky smell that was simply Harry. 

A hand settled on Draven's hip, pressing him closer, and another lifted to tangle in his hair. The heat of their exchanges, the fire that burned in Harry, leapt out to engulf him and Draven happily let it. It seeped into him, spiralling down his spine and pooling in his belly. 

Fisting his hand, Harry tugged, jerking away to lock his gaze with Draven's. 

“You're—” he broke off, his eyes shifting, searching Draven's face. He swallowed, then nodded, a fierce determination hardening his face. “You're Draven. You're a wizard. You're stubborn and spirited and sexy. And, frankly, I didn't know Draco well enough to know any of that abo—”

Draven lunged forward on the balls of his feet, silencing Harry, and burying his hands in the wild mane that was his hair. Tilting his head, angling his lips against Harry's, he deepened the kiss. 

Growling low in his throat, Harry shuffled forward, backing Draven into a nearby table. Chairs and table legs scraped against the hardwood floor as they stumbled to maintain their footing. 

Draven gasped, breaking the kiss when Harry dropped the hand from his hair to his waist, bunched his shoulders, and hoisted him up, onto a table. The heavy wood wobbled on uneven legs and Draven gripped those shoulders for balance, wrapped his legs around Harry's waist, and latched his teeth onto his collarbone. 

“Merlin,” Harry moaned, grinding his hips against Draven's. His hands slipped and he fell forward a step, catching himself on the table before he reached between them to fumble with Draven's flies. “You drive me fucking mad, Draven,” he muttered. 

His fingers brushed against the muscle straining against denim, drawing a gasping moan from Draven. “Yes!” he cried. “Fuck, Harry, touch me!” 

Hands scrambling for purchase, Draven rocked forward, blindly seeking friction. His head fell back when Harry finally managed to snap the buttons open on his jeans. He moved his hands around to slip past the waistband and palm the flesh of his arse, and Draven vibrated against him.

Harry pulled at the jeans, and the pants underneath, prompting Draven to lift his hips. When he did, the material was dragged down, over his thighs, and he shivered when the cool table touched his bare skin. But Harry was shifting his attention to his own trousers, flicking them open and shoving them down mere inches. It couldn't have been easy with the legs still clenched around him, but Harry grunted and, a moment later, Draven's breath hitched in his chest as heated flesh met and slid together. 

Leaning back, Draven dropped his eyes to their joined hips, shuddered at the sight. Harry's dark cock aligned against his own, pale skin. Holding his breath, he gave a tentative thrust of his hips, watching as his foreskin bunched, then stretched around the glans of his cock, the tip peeking out to kiss Harry's. 

“Fuck!” he hissed, drawing the word out, until it tapered off with a whimper. “Oh, god, Harry!” 

“Draven, Draven, Draven,” Harry chanted. He ran his hands down Draven's chest, curling and relaxing them against the skin warmed cotton of his t-shirt, and then under. “Draven.” 

He pulled one hand out, muttered something under his breath, then lifted it to show Draven. The palm glinted wetly, and Draven felt his lips stretch in a wide smile. Sex magic. Of fucking course. Grinning in return, Harry lowered his hand again, and wrapped it firmly around both rigid cocks. 

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Draven's lips reformed, opening in a surprised “o” as his hips bucked up into the slick grip. Then he stroked, turning Draven's limbs to jelly. Draven fell backward, still gripping Harry's shoulders for a moment longer before releasing them to arch back on the table. 

Harry followed him, pumping his hips to slide his cock through his fist, against Draven's. His pupils were blown wide with lust in the dim light of the dining hall, his breath came in harsh bursts, and sweat beaded on his forehead, just below the dark fringe of damp hair. 

Draven had never seen anything quite so compelling. Lifting his arm, he touched a finger to one bead, traced it along the strong cheekbone, and down across the hard jaw. Awed, he pulled away, brought his hand to his lips and, eyes locked with Harry's, licked the salty fluid from his fingertip. 

Harry closed his eyes, another growl building in his chest, and fell on Draven's lips, sucking and biting at them until Draven swore they would bruise. 

But he couldn't care less. This was what he wanted, what he was coming to crave. Harry's eyes, his hands, everything, was focused on Draven. Not Draco. Not the memory of his lost friend, or the single-minded mission that had driven him to this point. 

Just Draven. 

Arching his back, again, Draven reached down to clutch at Harry's thighs, his fingers digging into the flesh and dragging Harry closer with each thrust. The slide, slick against slick, was becoming unbearable. He had to—

“Harry!” he cried, wrenching his lips away. “More! God, please! Faster, faster, fas— aahhhh!”

“Yes, anything. Fuck!” 

Harry squeezed his arms under Draven's to wrap around his torso. The shift allowed them to rock together, but forced Draven's arms up, over Harry's shoulders. Now, the only friction came from that contact, from their hips moving in unison, and Harry buried his face in the hollow of Draven's throat. 

Draven gasped, curling his arms around Harry's head, and arched under the tortuous pressure building in his groin. So close, almost the—

“Fuck!” Harry shouted, before sinking his teeth into the corded muscle of his throat, body going rigid, and Draven exploded. 

The sting of Harry's teeth was lost in the rush of pleasure as he emptied himself, coming in long spurts into the space between them. The slippery fluid mixed with Harry's spunk and spread between them as they continued to rock through the aftershocks. 

Finally spent, Draven released Harry and slumped back, only making it as far as the arms, still holding him, would allow. Harry chuckled, gently lowering him until the cool wood pressed against his shoulder blades. He looked up at the man dripping sweat onto his chest and grinned. 

“Fuck.”

Harry laughed. “Next time, Your Grace.” Rearing back, he adjusted his jeans, tucking himself carefully away, and then bent to help Draven with his. “Merlin knows when that will be, but a man can hope.”

“Hope?” Draven asked, sitting when his jeans were closed. “Hope is a pretty big word, Potter. I didn't think you would know it,” he teased, jabbing a finger into Harry's ribs. 

“Oh, ha bloody ha. You're hilarious,” Harry mumbled, catching Draven around the waist and sliding him from the table. 

“And you're a brute, manhandling me left and right.” He slapped playfully at Harry's chest, then shrieked when he was lifted into the air, strong arms tight around his waist, and tossed casually over one broad shoulder. “For fuck’s sake, Potter, put me down!” 

“I can't help it that you're so skinny,” Harry laughed, turning in a circle and swinging Draven along. “Gotta put some meat on those bones. What will Narcissa think?” 

“Put me— aah! Put me down!”

“Harry, put him down,” Sirius sighed, shuffling into the dining hall. “And, damn it, Scourgify that table.”

Harry set Draven on his feet, ducking his head sheepishly. “Of course, I'm sorry.”

Ron trailed in, moments later, sitting beside Sirius, and leaned in to ask what was happening. When a mug materialised on the table before him, Sirius grasped it with both hands and sighed. 

“I never should have let them dance.”

-

For the umpteenth time that morning, Harry felt his eyes drawn to Draven. All throughout breakfast, he snuck peeks—between dodging knowing glances from Sirius and teasing elbow jabs from Ron. Draven barely ate, opting to push the food around on his plate, and the healthy glow fading from his cheeks seemed to be due only to their recent… er, activities. 

He already had that charming, waifish appearance, but this was getting ridiculous. As they walked to the pier, Harry made an effort to stick close to Draven's side. He swayed a little and, in the harsh sunlight, the dark smudges under his eyes cast a sunken, half-dead pallor over his handsome face. 

If pressed, Harry could admit that some fraction of his protectiveness was pure guilt. He hadn't been treating Draven fairly, he knew. What he didn't know was how to make up for it. It wasn't Draven's fault he looked so much like Draco. He'd been nothing but cooperative since they'd explained the situation to him, back at The Manor. 

A foghorn sounded as they pulled out of the port and Draven jolted beside him. Harry reached out a hand to steady him. “Thanks,” he mumbled, leaning into Harry’s side, for a moment. “I guess I get seasick. I’ve never been on a—”

“Bollocks,” Harry interrupted. “Did you get any sleep last night?” 

Draven cringed, avoiding his gaze. “Not really, no.”

“For the love of— what the hell did you do all night?” 

“Well,” he began, pushing away from Harry and smirking up at him. “Mostly, I watched people disappear into the fireplace. Although, some just talked to it for a while.” 

“What?” Harry asked before remembering, once again, that Draven didn't grow up in his world. “Oh, the Floo. That must have been a shock.”

“It was. Is there any means of travel in this world of yours that isn't deadly?” Draven crossed his arms, lifting one elegant brow. 

“Yes, because cars are so much safer than magical fire,” he scoffed, gesturing to a grid of the metal behemoths, stacked three high on the ferry.

“Oh, please, Potter! Cars are perfectly safe if you know how to operate one. Unlike untameable natural phenomena.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “We've obviously tamed it. Floo powder is perfectly reliable.”

“Oh?” Draven countered. He clutched at his stomach when the ferry lurched, almost imperceptibly, but the sick look passed quickly and he was back to eyeing Harry with a haughty sneer. “And what happens if you don't use enough? Or too much? I noticed everyone used a tiny pinch. What if they used a handful?” 

“Well…” Affecting a suitably chastised expression, Harry smiled sheepishly. “Nobody would do that. Everyone knows that would blow up the whole street.”

“What?” Draven shrieked, then glared and jabbed an elbow into Harry’s ribs when he laughed. “Oh, very funny, Potter.”

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Nothing would happen. Well, except that you'd have to buy Floo powder more often…” Rubbing at his side in an exaggerated manner, Harry grinned. “Hey, what happened to ‘Harry?’” 

“Nothing,” Draven teased, casting a sly, sideways glance through his lashes. “Yet. But there's still time; I'm sure he'll drown before lunch. No need to fret, Potter.” 

Chuckling, Harry slid an arm around Draven's waist. “Seriously,” he began. “You should have slept. Why don’t you have a nap?”

“It's not necessary, Harry. I'm fine.”

“Fine isn't good enough. How about healthy? You look like a stiff breeze would carry you all the way back to Hogwarts.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Draven laughed. “I'm perfectly healthy.”

“Oh, right,” Harry nodded in mock seriousness. “So, those circles around your eyes are, what? A fashion statement?” 

“What?” Leaping to his feet, Draven darted to a nearby car and bent to examine himself in one reflective window. “Shite! I look like hell!” he groaned. 

“Well, when was the last time you slept?” 

Pressing one finger high on his cheekbone, Draven pulled the skin down, warping the shape of his eye, and frowned. “A year, judging by these bags!” Turning to Harry, he pouted. “Why didn't you say something sooner?” 

Grinning, Harry took his hand and tugged until he sat again. “Are you mad? I'm regretting saying something now.” 

“Yes, well, I suppose I should get some sleep,” Draven conceded, covering a yawn. “But, you said I'm a wizard. Isn't there a way to live without sleep?”

“Sure,” Harry nodded. He glanced at the head that settled on his shoulder, smirking. “If you want to go mad, just like any other human being.”

“You're no fun, Potter.” 

“Nope. Now go to sleep,” he insisted, smiling when all he got in return was a small, soft, humming sound.

-

The gentle lapping of waves on the side of the ferry gave way to soft music. Tentatively, Draven stepped toward the massive, gilded doors that rose before him, stretching toward the ceiling and higher. Beyond them, he knew a grand ball awaited, but he hesitated. 

Somehow, the thought of such finery held no appeal. This place, so familiar, was wrong. It held none of the warmth he expected, none of the elusive quality that made a place home. Turning, he looked down one endless corridor, then the next. The walls were lit by glowing orbs, floating along the ceiling, and lined with a luxurious carpet of pale blue. Door after door branched off from the corridor, but none held the interest they should, so Draven stayed where he was, standing before the ballroom and his destiny. 

He took another halting step forward, but froze. Behind him, the tinkle of childlike laughter sounded and he turned toward it. At the bottom of the flowing staircase was a boy. Jet black hair gleamed and emerald eyes twinkled with alluring mischief. He smiled and Draven felt an answering tug at his own lips, a bubble of warmth rising in his chest. 

The boy gestured for him to follow, nodding when he lifted his dress robes and began to descend the stairs. 

“Come on!” he shouted, the sound tinny, as if from far away. “I have something to show you!” 

Delighted laughter falling from his lips, Draven put on a burst of speed, taking the stairs two at a time. He felt younger, lighter, than he could ever remember feeling before. 

“Where are we—” Draven began when he reached the bottom, but no one was there. 

“Follow me!” 

Draven whipped around, disoriented as his surroundings melted away, leaving a spotlight on the boy standing before another impressive set of doors. At that moment, the doors swung open and the boy danced through them, disappearing from sight. Draven hurried to follow, running faster as the floor stretched beneath his feet. 

“Wait!” he shouted. “Please, wait for me!” 

“Draven!” 

“Harry?” Draven asked. 

He slowed for a moment, but the darkness pressed in from all sides, forcing him onward. Without warning, the room shrank back to its natural shape and he stumbled through the door, gasping for breath. But this couldn’t be right. 

Instead of the bright gardens of the manor, he stood panting in a circle of tombstones, surrounded by tall figures in black cloaks and white masks. In the centre of the circle, green flames flickered around the basin of a large cauldron, nearly black from the soot of countless fires. Beside the cauldron, the boy smiled at Draven, a twisted, wicked parody of true joy, and he began to laugh. The cackle rose, shifting, breaking, until it reached a piercing shriek and the tangle of hair lengthened, becoming a mass of matted curls. The boy’s body twisted, reforming until that of a woman stood in its place. 

“Draven!” Harry called, again, and he turned toward the sound. “Draven, what are you doing?”

A whimper escaped Draven when his eyes finally landed on Harry. He stood, thrashing against the bonds that tied him to a large headstone, tossing his head to and fro. Beside him, a short, droopy man wrestled to keep Harry’s arm steady, drawing a jagged dagger and pressing it to the dark flesh of his forearm. With no small effort, Draven shook himself from the stupor that held him and, lifting one foot, made to dash to Harry’s side. But vice-like arms caged him, turning him to face the cauldron again.

“Come now, nephew!” the dark witch crowed. “This is where we were always meant to be. The Dark Lord will rise!”

“Draven!” Harry was screaming. The blade dug into his flesh, a line of red welling up around it, and Draven doubled over, his body heaving with the force of his nausea. “Draven, get out of here!” 

He was spinning, the tang of blood in the air, the mad laughter echoing around him, and Harry’s desperate cries imploring him to move. Kicking out, he fought the arms around his chest, screaming into the cacophony of oppressive sound and scent.

“No!” he cried. “No! Let me go! Harry! Harry!”

“Draven! Hey, hey,” Harry’s voice pleaded, and the arms around Draven loosened. Strong hands gripped his waist and shoulder, turning him in place. “Draven, you’re okay! I’m right here. It’s just a dream!”

His head ached and his heart beat wildly in his chest, still insisting he run. Opening his eyes to slits, he saw Harry struggling to hold him on his feet. 

“It's okay, baby, you're safe,” he murmured, burying a hand in pale, windblown hair and pressing Draven's head against the rough material of his coat. 

“Harry!” he sobbed. He clutched Harry close, thankful for the warmth of him. “Th- the dark lord! Harry, he's—” 

“Draven, what are you talking about? Voldemort is gone, you're safe! It was just a nightmare.” Rubbing soothing circles on his back, Harry pressed a kiss to his temple. “Merlin, you scared me,” he groaned, and Draven craned his neck to look back over his shoulder. 

Not two feet from where they stood, tumultuous waves crashed against the side of the ferry, the water a dark, ominous grey. With a shudder, Draven buried his head in the crook of Harry's neck and allowed himself to be dragged back to a safer distance.

Chapter 9

Cringing, Wormtail backed away from the glowing orb, covering his ears against the blood curdling screech emanating from his mistress. Another failure, another tantrum. Bellatrix stood, back bowed with the rage escaping from her lungs, in the centre of the small forest clearing just off the northern shores of France. 

Ripping at her hair, she began to pace. “This is unacceptable!” she howled. “How could I let him escape?” 

Hesitantly, Wormtail removed his hands and approached her. “Mistress? Mistress, please— perhaps it's time to—”

“Enough, Wormtail!” she ordered. “I do not need your cowardice. I need another plan!”

She paced away, fingertips massaging her temples, muttering to herself. Wormtail merely watched her go, wringing his hands nervously. There was nothing he could do, he realised. She would not rest and no argument he could make would deter her. 

This was not the life he'd envisioned when he joined the Dark Lord, all those years ago…

-

France, Draven thought, fingering the ring under his t-shirt. At last. Calais looked like any other city, so far, but that was fine. This was where he'd find what he sought. Whether or not Narcissa Malfoy was the one who had given him the ring was irrelevant. Somewhere in this land, he would find his past and his future. 

“Come along now,” Sirius chirped, striding ahead while Ron and Harry lugged their belongings from the ferry. “Long walk ahead of us.”

“Where are we going?” Draven asked. With only the pack on his back to carry, he darted after Sirius. “How are we getting to Paris?” 

“Assuming you still don't want to Apparate—” Draven shook his head vehemently. “We'll be taking the TGV.”

“Another train, Pads?” Harry asked when he caught up. “Couldn't we just call the Knight Bus?” 

Draven scoffed. “Trains and buses. What happened to teleportation and magic fire?”

“Hey, you're the one who didn't want to use those. Just be glad we aren't using portkeys.”

“What are—”

“You don't want to know,” Ron chimed in, looking somewhat green around the edges. 

“We're taking the train,” Sirius said. “It's the fastest route that won't have Draven losing his lunch. But it is a fair distance to the station.”

“In that case, it's probably wise to get a start on some defensive spells.”

Draven chuckled. “You mean I've graduated from levitation and summoning?” 

“Don't get me wrong, you still have loads to learn. We'll have to speak with Dumbledore about formal lessons and exams. But there are plenty of useful spells you'll need if you're going to try to walk off the side of a boat.”

“Fair point,” Draven agreed. “So, what will it be today, Professor?” 

“Disarming, shields, stunners. We haven't much time to practice, so we'll start easy.” 

With a subtle wave of his wand, Harry cast, drawing a shimmering veil around them that hung in the air for a moment, like heat waves on pavement, before it faded to nothing. “To keep prying eyes out,” he explained, then cast again, producing a ridiculous mannequin with a lopsided sneer. When the thing bobbed maliciously along with their pace, a little stick balanced in its bulbous hand, he passed the wand to Draven. 

“Abracadabra,” Draven quipped, jabbing the wand in the direction of the practice dummy. 

“Ha ha. Try Expelliarmus.”

He did, pleased when the little stick wobbled violently. He shot Harry a grin that was met with stern concentration. 

“That was good, but— here, try holding your arm like this.” He moved behind Draven, positioned his arm, then his stance. For a moment, a heartbeat only, Harry let his hands linger over Draven's, then he was gone. 

Expelling the breath he found himself holding, Draven nodded, tried again, and laughed when the little stick flew straight up out of the dummy's hand. 

“Much better,” Harry said, summoning the stick wandlessly. “But you want it to come to you. Again.”

-

The train ride was uneventful, but Harry didn't allow himself to relax until they had checked into a hotel. He still refused to believe Draven was Draco, but he couldn't ignore the attacks on his life since he joined them. Dementors worked for the Ministry; only a few were still loyal to Voldemort. Which meant they were loyal to Bellatrix. And no normal dream led a man to walk off the side of a boat to his death. 

Somehow, Bellatrix knew what they were up to, and she clearly thought he was important, so Harry would do everything in his power to keep him safe. Of course, that was easier to do from the same room. 

Letting himself into the room they'd assigned to Draven, Harry dropped his trunk on the bed and turned to look around. Running water told him Draven was having a shower, so he took the time to set up a ward around the room. He was just finishing up when the water stopped and the bathroom door opened. 

“What are you doing?” Draven demanded, clutching the towel around his hips a little tighter. “This is my room, Potter.”

“Our room,” Harry corrected absently. His eyes wandered over the expanse of pale skin, bisected by a wicked looking scar that ran from one shoulder to the opposite hip. “What happened?” he asked, shuffling closer. 

Draven's eyes narrowed and he cocked a hip. “Potter.”

“I thought you were calling me Harry.”

“I thought I had my own room.”

“And you're opposed to sharing? That's not very nice.” Leering, Harry stepped forward, crowding Draven and snaking one arm around his waist. “Think of what we could accomplish with a bed.”

Though he tried to glare, humour lit Draven's eyes, slowly working its way to his lips. “You're ridiculous, Potter.” But he slid a hand up Harry's arm to rest on his shoulder, leaned in for a kiss. 

“So, what happened?” Harry asked, leaning back to examine the scar again. “Looks like you were cut in half.”

“I— er, I don't actually know. I woke up in a hospital after they found me, and I had the bandages. I can only assume I was injured before I was discovered.”

“One of your car accidents?” 

Draven snorted, sat on the edge of the bed. “That would make sense, wouldn't it? No, I was found in a field. No car, no sign of one, or an accident. Just me, bleeding to death.”

Harry frowned. “And no one came looking for you?” Who would leave a child to die like that? 

“No. But I have to believe it's for a good reason. Somebody loved me.” He lifted his hand to his chest, started, then shook his head. “If I stop believing that, what else is there to believe in? I envy Draco, you know? He's had all of you looking for him for years.”

Bending, Harry brushed a kiss to the upper tip of the scar, then higher, until he reached Draven's lips. “Somebody loved you, and we'll find them.”

Draven lifted his arms to circle broad shoulders, pulling him back in and brushing his lips against Harry's. “Thank you. For everything. I know this hasn't been easy for you.”

“It's getting easier,” Harry teased, kissing him again, lingering over it. Then he pulled away on a groan. “We don't have time. Hermione is expecting us.”

“I know,” Draven chuckled. “Now, if you don't mind, I still need to dress.”

Laughing, Harry pressed one last kiss to his hair, then slipped away to wash the road from his skin. 

Chapter 10

In an effort to cease the ridiculous tapping of his foot, Draven lifted it, and propped it on the opposite knee. He, Harry, and Ron sat in a small, feminine parlor, Padfoot curled up at their feet in dog form, and he could hear snatches of conversation from the office beyond. 

“Yes Mrs Malfoy. Of course. There's really no need to— very well.”

“Granger,” a new voice clipped. 

“Parkinson.” 

“What, exactly, is worth getting Cissa all worked up before her meeting with the Minister?” 

“There's a Draco here to—” 

“Nothing new about that—”

“Harry brought him.”

“Harry? Harry Potter?” 

“The very same. And Ron Weasley.”

“Why would Potter bring him? Narcissa said he tried to convince her—” 

“I know.”

“Well, where are they?” The door flung open and a tall, sleek woman came striding into the room. “Potter,” she sneered. “Weasley. And I see you've brought Lupin's mutt.”

“Pansy Parkinson, as I live and breathe,” Harry drawled, reclining in his seat and throwing an arm over the sofa behind Draven's shoulders. “I thought vampires couldn't come out in daylight.”

“Darling, I came out at fifteen, nothing can put me back now.”

Laughing, Harry rose to his feet and caught Pansy up in a hug while she pecked a kiss to each of his cheeks. Ron remained seated, simply staring across the room at the severe looking young woman in pinstripes, her bushy hair pulled into a fat bun at the nape of her neck. 

“Harry, Ronald,” she greeted them each with a curt nod, her bun bobbing with the motion. 

"What are you doing here?" Pansy cried, interrupting the greeting before it reached Draven. "I thought you were training to be an almighty Auror. Though heaven knows why, you could do just about anything."

"Perhaps," Harry laughed, "but this seems right. You know that."

"I do," she sighed, holding him at arm's length. "So, what's this I hear about the Draco you've brought us?" 

Draven stood then, a bit awkwardly, and lifted a hand in a tentative wave. “Call me Draven, please,” he insisted. When both women's eyes widened, he elaborated. “It's the only name I've known for ten years. It'll do until this is sorted out.”

“Right, of course," the severe woman nodded again. "I'm Hermione Granger. If you don't mind my asking, how did you come by that name? It is awfully close to Draco.”

“Has the interview begun, then?” Harry asked, moving to stand beside Draven and dropping a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Might as well,” Hermione sighed, glancing across to Pansy. “Fetch some tea, won't you Pansy?” 

Pansy jerked back, as if she'd been slapped. “Do I look like a house elf? Call Dobby.”

“Dobby is at the villa, and you know perfectly well how I feel about house elves.”

“Then I'll call for one. Who's here?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, giving Draven the impression she only did so when she fully intended not to budge an inch. 

“You know what?” Ron said, finally rising. “I'll make the tea. If one of you could show me to the kitchen?” 

“Thank you, Ronald.” Hermione smiled brightly as Pansy tossed back her hair and led Ron from the room. 

“How do you feel about house elves?” Draven asked. The irony wasn't lost on him, he knew what a dobbie was and sincerely doubted helpful little elves were what these people were talking about. 

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Harry beat her to it. “Let's not get into house elf rights, shall we? I'm sure Draven's been through quite enough in the past few days. He came to us as a Muggle.”

“He didn't!” 

“Oh, he did. Padfoot here led him up to Hogwarts from—” Harry frowned. “I don't know where you came from.”

Draven laughed. “You never asked.” 

“There are plenty of little towns around Hogsmeade,” Hermione nodded. “Where in Scotland are you from?” 

“Scotland?” Draven asked, staring. “No, no. I—” He glanced back and forth between them, lost for words. “That's impossible… I— I was in England…” 

“Well,” Hermione sighed. “I'd say he didn't come to you as a Muggle.”

“So it would seem.” Chuckling, Harry sat and dragged Draven down beside him. 

“Right, let's get started. I have a questionnaire I'll be reading from, you just answer what you can.”

So Draven did, reciting everything he'd been taught in the short time he'd been with Harry, Ron, and Sirius. When Pansy returned with Ron and tea, she took up asking her own questions, much to Hermione's chagrin. 

“Well, that's about it,” Hermione began, but Pansy held up a hand to interrupt her. 

“Everyone knows the Malfoy history, it's not a valid test,” she said, pausing to sip her tea. “What can you tell me about the events of the night you were splinched?” 

“Pansy, that's not—” Hermione objected. 

Beside Draven, Harry tensed in his seat while Ron busied himself with selecting his third tea cake. Only Pansy and Padfoot were watching him expectantly. 

“It's fine,” he assured the room at large. “Either I'm Draco or I'm not, but I have to answer to find out.” Then he turned to Pansy. “I've been having this dream, I suppose it could be a memory. A party, the one Bellatrix attacked, I guess. We were dancing—another boy and I—and… and I left, but then he was there. Behind a curtain with someone else. They helped us leave and there were so many lights, bright green, and this terrible laughter…” They were flashing then, behind his eyes, the laughter following him through throngs of screaming guests. Holding tighter to the hand in his and squeezing his eyes closed when a guest fell to the floor in their path, his head turning into the soft material of— “I— I don't—”

“That's enough,” Harry's voice rang beside him as a strong arm encircled his shoulders. He leaned into the warmth and comfort he found there, content to regain his balance for the time being. 

Hermione cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Thank you, Draven.”

“Did he pass the test?” Ron asked, finally meeting Hermione's eyes. 

“All of his answers were satisfactory, but I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow if you want an audience with Mrs Malfoy. She's out of town for the rest of the day.”

“Don't be silly,” said Pansy, who'd been sitting with a thoughtful frown. “Cissa will be home tonight, we're going to the ballet. Why don't you join us?”

“The ballet?” Draven asked, glancing down at the pale blue robes he wore. Were they appropriate for such an event? Pansy answered his unasked question before he could open his mouth. 

“We'll have to go shopping, of course. Those are your only robes, I assume.” Draven nodded. “Well then, shopping before the ballet. Let's go.” Standing, she glided to the fireplace, picked up a pinch of dust, and threw it into the flames. 

“Wait—” Draven began but, again, Harry beat him to it. 

“Dra— Draven isn't comfortable with magical travel.”

“And who could blame him? Splinching is an ugly business. Just go through with Harry, darling, he'll keep you safe.” With a wink, she sauntered up to the flames, spoke the address, and disappeared within them. 

When Draven glanced his way, Harry had an unreadable expression on his face, his eyes gone forest dark and his mouth set in a hard line. It was a wonder he felt safe with the man but, against all odds, he did. So he stepped closer, reached for Harry's hand and, together, they stepped up to the fireplace. 

“You'll keep me safe?” he asked. 

Harry simply stared for a moment, then released Draven's hand to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Always,” he murmured, then took a pinch of powder, barked out the address Pansy had given and pulled Draven into the flames. 

-

The extra weight had them stumbling through the Floo and into the tiny café in the wizarding district of Paris. Draco—because Harry didn't doubt he was Draco after that interview—had his arms linked tightly around Harry's neck and his proximity tangled their legs until Harry was tripping to catch his balance. As soon as he did, he dragged Draco a short distance from the fireplace, just as Ron exited the Floo, followed closely by Hermione. 

“Padfoot?” Harry asked, unsure if Sirius would be joining them. 

“He decided to wait at the hotel. Said he's more of a charity shop man.”

Harry laughed, “That he is. You okay?” he asked Draco quietly, stroking a hand over his hair and craning his neck to make eye contact. 

“Th— that was… Probably not as bad as I expected.”

“Probably?” Concern coloured the question. Draco's shoulders were shaking, his breath coming erratically. “Dra— Draven?”

Without warning, he threw his head back on a peal of laughter, his eyes shining like quicksilver. “I'm such an idiot! I thought it would be like the other one. The jerk and the soul crushing darkness. That was like dancing in fire, but it didn't hurt. It was… warm.”

“Told you Potter had you. He likes pretty boys.” Pansy winked again, then gestured to the door. “Shall we?” 

Draco finally released Harry, stepping away to follow their shopping guide. Harry hung back and watched as they bounded from shop to shop. 

Each new bag and parcel was handed off to Hermione, who shrank them and added them to a pouch Harry knew was large enough inside to make shrinking unnecessary. But Hermione had always been a Ravenclaw, through and through. No doubt the bag was already stuffed with books. Harry chuckled to himself when she wandered out of a shop flipping through the pages of a new one. 

At Hermione's side, Ron strode confidently—a feat that had taken him years to achieve—pointing to a page in the book and quirking a foolish grin. The man was head over heels for his mousy bookworm, and sometimes Harry wondered if she even noticed. He was a good man, loving in a way that spoke of his upbringing in a large, diverse family. If Hermione didn't see it, she would in time. And if she was half as smart as everyone thought, she'd snatch him up. 

Pansy and Draco were flitting from shop to shop, lost in the thrill of shopping and conversation. It didn't matter that Draco wore ripped jeans and a ratty t-shirt under the fine blue robes that had once belonged to his father. Nor was it of any import that he was raised by Muggles in an orphanage. It was like no time had passed between the two of them and common interests were a high priority. Namely, shopping. 

Harry wandered into a shop behind them, still lost in thought. It was almost over. They'd see Narcissa that evening and Draco would be home. But where did Harry fit? He'd given up on ever finding Draco, and had said as much to the man himself. Would Draco want him in his life after that? Could Harry bring himself to ask it of him? 

Spotting Pansy by the dressing rooms, Harry made his way to her side, dropped a kiss to her cheek, then collapsed into an armchair to wait with her. 

“I can't believe you found him, Harry,” she began, taking the chair next to his. 

“It's more like he found me.”

“Perhaps, but you recognised him and brought him home.”

“He hasn't told you yet?” The mock confusion on her face told Harry he had. “Alright, yes. I didn't think he was Draco.”

“I know you're thick, Potter, but come on. He looks exactly like Narcissa.”

“So does Lovegood.”

“That was a long time ago. She doesn't look anything like Cissa anymore. And you were twelve.”

“I thought he was dead, Pans.”

“Well, he's not. He's in that dressing room, trying on a suit. Which will fit him much better that those rags he was wearing.”

“I don't know what to do, Pansy,” he groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. “I lo-” 

“Okay, how's this?” Draco asked, stepping from the dressing room. “Oh, Harry, good. What do you think?” 

He wore a dark grey suit, the waistcoat and blazer accentuating his slim waist while the trousers trailed down his legs, making them seem longer than humanly possible. His hair draped around his face to his shoulders, lending a casual appearance and making Harry's mouth water, his fingers itch to touch. 

Swallowing, he nodded. “You look fantastic,” was all he said. 

Pansy, on the other hand, had jumped to her feet as soon as he appeared, poking and prodding at the fabric, folding and tugging to her satisfaction. “You look like you never wore denim in your life,” she assured him and he laughed. 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“It's exactly what you want. How are the shoes?” 

“Surprisingly comfortable,” he said, flexing his feet for emphasis.

“Good. We'll get this fitted, and then you're wearing it out.”

“Wearing it? I thought fitting took time.”

“For Muggles and major alterations. This already fits you very well, it shouldn't take more than a spell or two. Harry, be a dear and dispose of those rags.”

“Wait—”

“It's okay, I'll just take them back to the hotel.”

Draco sighed, relief flooding his features. “Thank you.”

“Come along, Draco,” Pansy called, already halfway to the front of the shop. 

“I told her to call me Draven. She just does whatever she likes, doesn't she?” 

“That's Pansy. She was my housemate at school and I wish I could say you get used to it.” Harry quirked a grin when that drew another laugh from Draco. “I, er, I should get these to—”

“Right. And I—”

“Draco?” Pansy called again, rather more insistently. 

“Am apparently needed, elsewhere,” he chuckled. Rising on his toes, he pressed his lips to Harry's cheek, then turned and strode toward Pansy and the tailor.

Outside, Harry bundled up Draco's clothes and handed them to Hermione to add to their purchases. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes. I love Paris, but who wouldn't?” 

“I can think of someplace I like better,” Ron cut in. “Home is where the heart is, after all.”

Harry chuckled. “Ron's a family man,” he whispered dramatically. 

“So I've heard,” Hermione smiled, sliding a sidelong glance at Ron. “We should have dinner before we leave. It's getting late.”

“You read my mind, Granger.” Pansy and Draco joined them, the crisp suit pulling gasps from Ron and Hermione. 

“Look at you,” Ron said with a low whistle. “Can't believe I'm saying this, mate, but I kind of want to hit you.”

“What?” 

Four pairs of eyes trained on Ron as he scratched the back of his head nervously. “You look like a posh git, now.”

Draco laughed while Hermione and Pansy released long-suffering sighs, and Harry reached over to smack Ron's head. 

“Okay, dinner.”

“And dancing,” Pansy interjected. “Ooh! I know just the place.” 

-

“Okay,” Draven laughed as he hopped from the last step to the pavement. “The Knight Bus is an acceptable mode of magical transportation. That was wild!”

Harry laughed along with him. “I told you, Your Grace, more like flying than any other magical transport.”

“Except flying,” Ron quipped. 

“Yes! When do I get to go flying again?” 

“Just say the word,” Pansy said, linking her arm around Draven's. “We'll get you the best broom money can buy and book a Quidditch pitch. Here we are.”

She came to a stop outside of a decrepit looking warehouse in the middle of what appeared to be a manufacturing district. Draven doubted they were even in Paris, anymore. But the heavy bass was bleeding through the walls in invitation, and his heartbeat was already falling into step. 

“You'll have to change, of course. Granger, your bag.”

Draven walked out of the toilet twenty minutes later, squeezed into the tight leather trousers Pansy had insisted were a must. Per her direct orders, he'd kept the shirt from his suit, tucked snugly into the leather with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair fell loosely around his face and he was itching to push it back. 

Taking a deep breath, he smiled at Pansy when she linked their arms again. He could get used to having a friend like her. She was sass with class, a complete control freak but sincere in her motivations. He'd spent the afternoon studying her and was determined to maintain their newfound friendship, regardless of the night's outcome. 

“I took the liberty of steering us to this club because I get the sense you'll be more comfortable here,” Pansy was saying. “If my instinct was wrong, say the word and we'll leave.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what she meant when they rounded the corner into the heart of the club and her meaning became abundantly clear. There was a healthy-sized crowd for so early in the evening, half of them already dancing while others enjoyed their meals. Men and women danced in large groups, couples shared heated glances, as a machine pumped fog around their feet in time with the music blaring toward the front of the dance floor. 

“You brought me to a gay bar?” Draven asked, stunned. He couldn't tear his eyes from a couple at the edge of the floor, two men dancing as if no one was watching. As if they were in the privacy of their bedroom… 

“Is it too much? I'm sorry, I thought—” 

But Draven shook his head weakly. “I went to a couple of pubs back home, but nothing like this.” Turning, he gave her a grateful smile. “Your instincts were spot on. Come on, I want to dance.”

The atmosphere was a heady combination of elegance and energy and Draven's head spun with it. Between shopping and the Knight Bus, he wasn't exactly sure he could handle this situation, let alone the ballet later in the evening, but he was determined to enjoy himself. 

When the song changed, Draven scanned the dim room, searching for a familiar head of messy black hair, which proved to be more difficult than expected. With all of the stylishly tousled hair in his view, Harry was practically invisible. He was about to try again, searching for Hermione's bushy mane instead when the woman stood and waved them over vigorously. Too vigorously. She froze, surprise colouring her pretty face as the chunky bracelet she wore flew from her wrist and into the crowd of bodies on the dance floor. 

Laughing, he watched as Ron jumped up, diving into the crowd to retrieve the bracelet, and strode toward their table. “You should probably keep him,” he teased, his smile widening at Hermione's deep blush. “Not many straight men would jump into that crowd, even for a pretty girl.”

“Found it,” Ron gasped, handing the bracelet to Hermione and pushing his hair back. “Also, I think I got married in there.”

When the laughter died down and Ron and Pansy had taken their seats, Draven finally turned to Harry. He'd changed his clothes too, though Draven hadn't seen him in the toilets. Instead of the casual clothes he'd worn during their trip he was wearing a deep green shirt and a dark grey waistcoat. A blazer hung from the back of his chair and his trousers were snug blue jeans that looked new. There was something different about him, but Draven couldn't exactly place it. 

Before he could speak, Harry was standing, resting a hand on his arm and searching his eyes worriedly. “Are you okay?” he asked, and Draven all but purred. Reaching forward, he hooked his fingers around the edges of the waistcoat and tugged. 

“I'm fine, Potter, but I'll be better after you dance with me.”

Chuckling low in his throat, he wrapped an arm around Draven's waist and stepped forward, walking him backwards to the dance floor. Tugging at his hip, Harry prompted him to spin away, caught his hand and pulled him back, startling a laugh from Draven. 

“Not the girl this time?” 

“You aren't a girl either,” Harry scoffed. “Isn't that the point of this place?” 

“Touché.” Biting his lip, Draven dropped his gaze for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Harry, I've been thinking—” 

“I need to tell you—” Harry began at the same time, then smirked. “Please, continue.”

Draven smiled weakly. “I know this hasn't been easy for you, and I wanted to thank you again. For everything, really. You didn't have to take this chance on me, no one could blame you for wanting the search to be over. And I know how slim the chances are that I'm him, which makes this doubly difficult for you.”

“Draven?” He lowered his forehead to Draven's, inhaling deeply. “You're babbling.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry, I just— Thank you.”

Lifting his head, Harry smiled. “My pleasure, Your Grace.”

“That's not actually Draco's title, is it?” 

Laughing, Harry spun him away again, and back. Their bodies flush, he slowly circled his hips, dragging a gasp from Draven's throat and filling his mind with images of a dark room and writhing bodies. 

“I don't think you know what you do to me,” Harry murmured. “Leather, really?”

“I— it was Pansy's idea.”

“Of course it was. The woman is a bloody genius.”

“Yes, I— I'm coming to realise that.”

While they spoke, while Harry whispered nonsense that would make the devil blush, he twirled them around the dance floor, a refreshing counterpoint to the needy dancing of the men and women surrounding them. Draven thought back to the last time they'd danced like this, to what came later, and he wanted. He wanted Harry to stop spinning them around before he floated away. He wanted to plunge his fingers into the tangled mess on his head. He wanted that mouth to stop talking, wanted it on his skin instead. 

Harry ducked his head, dragged his lips along his collarbone, and Draven nearly jumped out of his skin. “Harry,” he gasped. Rising on his toes, he brushed his lips over Harry's earlobe, whispering harshly. “Take me back to our room.”

Nodding, Harry stepped back, took his hand, and pulled him toward the exit. “We'll get the Knight—” 

“No.” Draven pulled them to a stop. “Too slow. Teleport us.”

“Apparate,” Harry corrected. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes. Please Harry, I can't wait any longer.” He was whining, he knew, but it couldn't be helped. It was all he could do not to whimper. He slid his free hand over Harry's waist, dipping dangerously close to his prize for such an exposed position, but it got his point across. 

“Okay. Outside, come on.” And he was dragging Draven through the bar again, weaving around dancers and waiters until they were finally ducking through the door, into the cool evening air. 

“Wait, wait,” Draven gasped. “Harry wait.” 

When Harry turned back, his mouth opened to ask what they were waiting for, Draven lunged, linked his fingers behind his neck, rising on his toes, and captured his lips. Sucking on his bottom lip, he ground himself against the hardness straining the seams of Harry's jeans. 

Harry's arms came around him again, and he growled, hands firmly cupping Draco's arse over leather, squeezing. Without warning, he spun them around, yanking Draven through the emptiness that was Apparition. 

Chapter 11

They landed with a soft squeak of bedsprings and Harry levered himself up to give Draco breathing room. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, his hand finding Draco's cheek in the near darkness. 

“I'm fine,” Draco muttered, lifting his arms to encircle Harry's shoulders again. “A little dizzy, but fine.”

“Do you need something? Water?” 

“I need you to shut up and kiss me,” Draco ordered, already pulling him closer, grinding his hips against the hard line of Harry's cock. 

“I— yeah, I can do that…” 

And he did, lowering his lips to Draco's, tasting, savouring. His hands trailed over crisp cotton, warm leather, ghosting, massaging. But it wasn't enough. He wanted, craved skin. Rearing up to his knees, he summoned his wand, ready to cast.

Before he could utter the words to vanish their clothing, it was gone. He knelt, gooseflesh covering suddenly bare skin, the setting sun lighting the pale expanse of Draco's below him. Draco moaned, writhing in a low beam of sunlight, the necklace he wore glinting with it. Harry froze when he saw it, the last bit of evidence he needed hung where it had the whole time they'd been together. 

Draco chuckled, drawing his attention. “Impatient, Potter?” he asked, reaching up to trail a hand over Harry's abdomen. “You could have just—” 

Harry grinned, lightning quick, and grabbed Draco's hips, tugged. “I didn't do that,” he murmured. “Seems you're the one who can't wait for it, Your Grace.”

A flush crept up Draco's neck, colouring his cheeks fetchingly, and Harry laughed. Not for the first time that evening, he pushed all thoughts of the future from his mind. For the time being, Draco was his. Harry would have to tell him what he knew, that he really was Draco, but this wasn't the time. This was for them. It could be all he'd ever have with the man.

Shoving that thought aside as well, Harry settled beside Draco, crushed their lips together, and ran one hand down his chest, over sharp hip bones, to give his cock a teasing tug. Draco arched into his hand, his head flying back. He hooked his legs over Harry's hip, grinding his arse against his cock, and Harry cried out at the sensation. 

Just when he thought he couldn't take anymore, Draco lunged to his knees, pushed him to his back, and straddled him. Gyrating his hips, his cock sliding across Harry's abdomen in a pool of precome oozing from the tip, he rode, slowing only to slide his lips urgently over Harry's. 

“Fuck!” Harry cursed, taking hold of Draco's thighs to help guide his exuberant motions. “Holy fucking hell, I'm going to explode.”

“Oh, no you don't,” Draco growled. Without another word, he threw one long leg back, climbing off of Harry and kneeling before him in one swift motion. Craning his neck, he shot Harry a wink, wiggling his arse invitingly. 

“Merlin, what are you doing to me?” But Harry was up in a moment, falling on Draco like a starving man. Digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Draco's arse, he spread the cheeks, buried his face in the hot crevice. 

“Oh my God,” Draco moaned, bucking his hips. “Oh fuck, Harry!” 

Taking the encouragement, Harry redoubled his efforts, suckling at the tight ring of muscle, sliding his tongue in and out to the tempo of Draco's gasps. Before long, Draco was reaching down to pull helplessly at his own cock, quiet whimpers echoing around the room, shoulders shaking where they had fallen to the bed. 

Draco was close, but Harry craved more still. Backing off of him, Harry replaced his tongue with fingers, first two, then three, opening him slowly, painfully slowly.

“Harry,” he cried. “Harry, please! I— I— oh, God!”

Moving into position behind him, Harry lined himself up, pressing the spongy head of his cock just into the tight entrance when Draco jerked forward. 

“Wait, wait,” he panted, turning to face Harry. “I want to see you.”

Touched, Harry smiled, leaning forward to kiss him again, angling his head to take it deeper. Gently, he pushed Draco's shoulders, lowering him to his back and moving with him, covering him. When he rose above Draco, he stilled, his heart in his throat. 

The reds and yellows of sunset bled through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over Draco, and Harry all but stuttered his praise. “Gods, you're beautiful,” he murmured, lowering himself one last time between Draco's bent knees. 

With his lips on Draco's, Harry lined himself up again, rocking into him as he lost himself in the kiss. Draco's arms came around him then, holding him close as he arched into Harry's chest, forcing himself further down his cock. 

He tried to set a slow, sensuous pace, to take his time, but it was futile. His mind was nearly gone and Draco gained control easily. He hooked his ankles together at the small of Harry's back, hips bucking with a frequency that stole his breath and dragged him along for the ride. 

“Oh fuck,” Harry moaned, pushing forward to meet him and dropping his forehead to Draco's. “Oh gods, yes!” 

He wouldn't last, could already feel his orgasam mounting with every thrust. Desperate, needy sounds ripped from his throat with every move they made, heat pooled low in his belly. With the last of his willpower, Harry knocked Draco's hand aside, grasped his cock. 

“I'm so close,” he gasped. “Come on baby, come with me. Fuck!” 

Hips pumping erratically, he came, dragging Draco with him a moment later. Then, with every ounce he had spent, he collapsed, pitching forward to land across Draco's chest, already rumbling with laughter. 

“Holy shit, Potter!"

“Yeah?” Harry panted. “Holy shit is good…”

“You can say that again.”

“Holy shit is goo— ooof!” 

“Shut the fuck up, you prat,” Draco laughed, but he snuggled closer, curling his arms up and over Harry's shoulders. “God, I needed that.”

“What you need,” Harry began, fighting off the grogginess threatening to consume him, “is to get ready for the ballet.”

“Shit! What time is it?” 

“We have about an hour before we're supposed to— fuck! No one knows where we are.” Rolling off Draco, Harry summoned his wand, casting a Patronus and sending it off to Ron as quickly as possible. 

“What was— wasn't that the spell you used on the train?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. It's also used to communicate in a pinch,” Harry answered absently, searching the room for his clothes. “When you don't have a Floo or time for an owl. I think you actually vanished our clothes. Pansy's going to kill you.”

“An owl?” 

“Right, I'm sorry, I keep forgetting. We use owls to send letters. They're much faster than snails—I don't know why anyone would want to use snails in the first place, they're so small.”

Draco was staring at him, confusion twisting his features for a moment. When it cleared, though, he collapsed backward on the bed, laughing uproariously. 

“What?” 

“N—nothing Potter. Come on, I need a shower.”

Frowning, Harry aimed a Scourgify in Draco's direction, darkly pleased when he yelped at the sensation. 

-

Harry was the first out of their hotel room, leaving Draco to the shower he'd insisted on anyway, even after the cleaning charm. Heading down the corridor, he made his way to the lobby, not remotely surprised to see Pansy standing beside Ron, both dressed in long, elegant dress robes. Harry took a moment to remember the robes Ron had worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year, chuckling to himself. The set he wore now had been a Christmas gift from George the year before. 

“Looking good, Weasley,” he said, clapping a hand to Ron's back. “You nick those robes off Charlie?” 

“Ha ha, as if Charlie would be caught dead in dress robes.”

“You're right. Must have been Percy.”

“Shove off.” But Ron smiled, his ears turning pink at Harry's teasing. 

“Ugh, bromance,” Pansy drawled, feigning disgust. “Why don't you two go ahead? Draco and I will catch up.”

It was a pleasant walk, the evening breeze carrying the sound of street music and laughter from the heart of Paris. Harry walked with his head down, lost in thought. At his side, Ron rambled on about Hermione, her hair, her skin, her overall brilliance. 

Harry took a deep breath. “Ron,” he began, then paused, unsure what exactly he wanted to say. 

“Draven did great, didn't he? He nailed the questionnaire, and even Parkinson keeps calling him Draco. I really think—” 

“He is Draco,” Harry murmured. 

“I know, but they're pretty convinced too!” Excitement fading, Ron turned to face Harry. “Wait, I thought you were the one who didn't believe it. What changed?”

“We never asked him what he remembered, Ron. Where he's been, how he got there. We should have. We could have avoided all of this.”

“Harry?” 

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat, shaking his head. “The dancing, the curtain, the killing curse. All of it. He was there. And— and he has scars on his chest, easily from a splinching accident. And…”

“You love him.” It wasn't a question, but Harry nodded anyway. “What will you do?”

“What can I do? I gave up on him, and he knows it. How can I begin to ask forgiveness?”

“Gentlemen, please,” Pansy sniffed. “Do carry on. We're nearly there.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to find Draco and Pansy walking arm in arm a few paces behind them, both draped in long evening cloaks with nearly identical smirks on their faces. Straightening, he resumed the walk, pulling Ron along. 

“There's nothing for it,” he muttered so only Ron could hear him. “I'm going to deliver him to his mother and leave him the hell alone.”

When they arrived at the steps of the theatre, his resolve wavered. Standing at the topmost step, Draco removed his cloak, passing it to a doorman as if he'd been doing so all of his life, and Harry found himself staring. The robes he'd worn before spoke of the ocean at midday, sparkling a clear pale blue. These reminded him of the Great Lake at sunset; a blue so dark it was almost black, waves crested where fabric folded in on itself, and Harry could have sworn he saw stars reflected in the surface when the material stilled. 

Draco caught him staring, tilted his head curiously, then beamed and gave a little twirl. When he stopped, he spread his arms, asking a silent question and Harry answered silently, hurrying up the stairs to his side. He still had time before giving this up. 

The ballet was… well, it was a ballet. Harry wasn't remotely interested in the plot or the dancers. He spent his time watching Draco. Pansy had pointed to the box she, Hermione, and Narcissa would be occupying for the evening, and he hadn't looked away since then. At one point, Harry glanced down to find Draco's fingers tearing nervously at his playbill. Taking his hand, he linked their fingers, brought Draco's to his lips. 

“You're going to be fine.”

“I know, I know, I just— Harry, what if she doesn't recognise me?” 

“Shh, it'll be fine. Trust me.”

Draco relaxed a fraction, leaning into Harry and resuming his box watching. It wasn't much longer before the curtains fell and the lights rose, signaling the intermission. Squeezing his hand, Harry stood and led Draco out of their section and around to Narcissa's. 

“Wait here,” Harry said, dropping one last kiss to Draco's hand before rapping at the door. 

A beat later, Hermione was opening the door and ushering him in. The box was as posh as he remembered it from his childhood, when Narcissa would invite him, Pads, and Moony to visit her. He never paid attention to the ballet then, either. 

“Go on,” she whispered. “She's expecting you.”

Drawing a deep breath, Harry held it as he approached the curtain separating the small room from the balcony beyond. The curtain shifted, startling Harry, and Narcissa emerged, her face set in a stern frown. 

“Mrs Malfoy,” he began, then, “Narcissa. I found him,” he finished with a whoosh as he finally exhaled. “Draco, he's here…" he trailed off when her expression remained unchanged, except for her eyes, which hardened further. "Narcissa, are you listening to me?”

“Enough, Mr Potter. I don't know what possessed you to come here, to treat me this way, but you may leave now. And take your look alike with you.”

“What are you—? Narcissa, it's him. I wouldn't come here if—” but that was exactly what he'd done, wasn't it? He had been so sure Draco was gone, he'd been willing to take a stranger all the way to France to prove it to her. 

“What was your plan, Harry?” she sighed, hurt finally breaking through the hard mask. “Would you bring him here, convince me he was my son, just to end the search? I can't believe you'd be so selfish.”

“Narcissa, no! That was never—” 

“Please, Harry, leave me alone.”

“But—”

“Come on, Harry,” Pansy insisted, taking him by the arm. “Don't make me draw on you.”

Finally looking into her eyes, Harry felt himself go limp. How could he not have seen this coming? What else would she think? Sighing, he dug deep into his pocket, his fingers closing over the smooth pewter of half a ring. 

“Give this to her,” he begged, pressing the ring into Pansy's hand. “He is Draco.”

With that, he shook her hand from his arm, turned, and stormed through the door. He'd have to hope Pansy got through to her.

Chapter Twelve 

Draven stood stock still. He'd cycled through surprise, amusement, and guilt since noticing the door hadn't latched behind Harry, but anger won out in the end. When Harry waltzed back out of the little room, Draven was livid, and he hoped his face showed it. 

“What the fuck is going on, Potter?” he demanded, hands on his hips, his eyes flashing.

“Dra—” 

“You said I wouldn't have to lie! You said that wasn't what we were doing!” 

“What are you—? That's not what we're doing!”

Throwing his hands up, Draven spun away. “You could have fooled me! You lied to her! You would have let her accept me either way, wouldn't you? Just to be done with it! I knew this was a con, I should have trusted my instincts! I can't believe I let you—” 

“Listen to me!” Harry snapped, catching him by the shoulders and jerking him around. “You are Draco Malfoy. You are! When you spoke of the ball, and the curtain, and the—” 

“Stop it! I don't want to hear anything about what I said or remembered. Just leave me alone, Potter!” 

“Draco!” 

Pulling himself free, Draven reached out—before he knew it was happening—and smacked. Through the tears of anger and mortification pooling in his eyes, he saw the shock, the hurt on Harry's face as clear as his own handprint. Turning, he bolted through the theatre, down the grand staircase, and into the night. 

It hurt, more than he could have imagined. It was more than betrayal, though it was that. And more than the loss of a friend and lover, though it was most definitely that. Draven wondered if it would have hurt as badly had Mrs Malfoy simply rejected him, herself. 

It was doubtful. 

Unsure what to do with himself, Draven wandered for a bit before making his way back to the hotel. He'd pack, he decided, and prepare to continue his search for his past. Alone.

But first, he'd change back into his tattered jeans and t-shirt. The day's shopping hadn't produced anything so easily suited for travel. Even with the new clothes, though, he didn't have much. Sighing, he cast one last look around the room, slung his rucksack over his shoulder, and made for the door. 

A quiet knock sounded just as his hand landed on the knob, and Draven sighed again. Rolling his eyes, he flung the door open. 

“Go away, Potter! Oh!” 

“I am not Harry Potter,” the regal woman drawled, one delicate hand on her throat as she inspected him. 

“Mrs Malfoy, I'm sorry. I thought you were—” 

“I know very well who you thought I was. My question is, who are you?”

Draven opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, frowned. “I'm no one, ma'am. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

“I've learned a great many truths in my life, young man. Among them: no one is no one. You may not be my son, but you are someone.”

“That may be, but I have no idea who. I was raised as an orphan, I have no memory of my past.”

“Haven't you? Ms Parkinson seemed to believe you had enough memories to prove your identity. And Mr Potter believes you to be Draco Malfoy.” 

“Mr Potter can—” 

“Be many things, yes.” She smirked, pale grey eyes twinkling. “He returned a belonging to me, tonight, and suggested it was all the proof I would need. But I see he may have been exaggerating the situation.”

“I'm sorry he tried to trick you like that,” Draven murmured, bowing his head. “I wish I'd realised sooner.” Lifting a hand, he reached for his necklace, gasped to find it wasn't there. 

“Is something troubling you?” Mrs Malfoy asked as he whipped his head to search the surfaces of the room for his necklace. 

He sighed when he saw it, chain sparkling on the bureau. “I nearly left without— never mind. It's here.” Slipping the chain over his head, he let the ring fall loosely on his chest. “I really must be going now. Good evening Mrs Malfoy.”

A delicate hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. Wide eyes snapped up to meet his briefly before darting back to the bit of metal. 

“Where did you get that?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“My ring?” Draven asked, confused. “I've always had it. For as long as I can remember, anyway. Mrs Malfoy, are you—” 

“It was a gift to my Draco,” she was saying, fumbling with the small clutch she carried. “I gave it to him that night, the night we were—”

She broke off when she found what she'd been looking for, held it aloft. It wasn't much, a small circle of metal, pewter, but Draven recognised it instantly. Gasping, he clutched at his half of the ring. 

“I—” he stuttered. "I thought it was broken, that it was lost." He stared at half she held, the tail and back legs, just as simply carved as the half he wore. A rushing in his ears and a weakness in the knees prompted him to sit, lifting a hand to rub at his temple. “I— I remember. I didn't want to go. But Father had decided, and Paris— Paris makes you smile. You promised we would always be together, no matter where we were…”

While he tried to orient himself against the flood of memories, Mrs Malfoy, his mother, held out a hand to take his portion of the ring, fitting the two halves together when he handed it to her. Tears were streaming freely from her eyes, a watery smile curled her lips and softened the hard lines of her face. 

“Draco!” she cried, pulling him into her embrace. “Oh, Draco, you've come home!” 

-

“A ball! She's throwing a ball Wormtail, can you believe it? Ten years has done nothing for her senses. My foolish little sister will relive history.” 

Bellatrix's cruel laughter echoed around the small stone room, grating on Wormtail's frayed nerves. The woman was terrifying, her madness seemed to grow by the day. The newspaper clipping she held crumpled in her fist showed a photograph of the Malfoy boy and his mother, reunited at long last in the Parisian sun. 

Frankly, there was little in the world that could entice him to join her in her mission, and she possessed none of it. Even her madness wouldn't scare him into that death trap. Surely there would be Aurors everywhere, and their numbers were so few all these years later. It was a suicide mission. 

“Come Wormtail! We must prepare ourselves for a ball!” 

"I'm sorry, Mistress," Wormtail murmured while she was distracted. "You're on your own."

So, while she primped and preened, Wormtail made his escape. 

-

“A ball, Narcissa?” Harry demanded, slamming the door of her office behind him and waving a copy of the Prophet in her general direction. “What are you thinking?” 

“Mr Potter, how kind of you to drop in. Would you like some tea?” 

Harry blinked, taken aback. “No, I don't want any tea! Bloody hell, Narcissa, I want answers!” Splaying his hands on the desk before her, he leaned as close as he dared. Good breeding and manners did nothing to hide the fact that Narcissa Malfoy was a powerful witch. “You've had him back for a week and you already want to hand him over to her? What's going to stop Bellatrix from attacking again?” 

Finally laying down her quill, Narcissa folded her hands and levelled Harry with a stern look. “It's likely nothing will stop her from attacking. It's been ten years, Harry. The majority of the remaining Death Eaters have been captured or killed, you know that. If she attacks, she won't have many allies, and there will be Aurors stationed to prevent any harm to Draco. I won't let her take him from me again.”

“It's too risky!” he insisted, slapping the newspaper against wood. “I won't let you do this.”

“Harry,” she said, rising and circling the desk. “We won't run from her forever. Drawing her into the open now will ensure we never have to run from her again. Please, I'd like your help with this. The Aurors will be there, but Draco won't feel comfortable with strangers crowding him all evening. Attend the ball, stay by his side.”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “No, I can't do that. He wants nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous. You brought him home.”

“After I gave up on him. Why would he want anything to do with me?” 

“You think that matters? Perhaps it matters more to you than to Draco.”

“Of course it matters to me! Ten years, he was gone! Even faced with him, I rejected him.”

“That's not what I heard,” she smirked, a twinkle in her soft eyes. 

“Narcissa, how can I expect him to forgive me when I can't?” 

“I suppose you don't want the reward, either?” 

“Keep it,” he answered without a second thought, then paused. “No, give it to Ron. He's the one who brought Draco home.”

“Done. And he has my thanks, as do you." She smiled serenely, a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Harry, you're right. You can't expect forgiveness while you can't forgive yourself. What you need to remember is that this is my fault, not yours. I lost him and I never should have let you work so hard to find him. No one can blame you for wanting the search to end.”

Her words echoed in his mind as he left her office, trailing slowly down the marble staircase in the villa he knew nearly as well as he knew the little house in Godric's Hollow or Hogwarts itself. He'd spent countless hours here, holidays, summer weekends, searching tirelessly for his best friend. Until school ended and he felt it was time to grow up, to stop wishing for the impossible and move on with his life. He'd sacrificed so much of his childhood, of his adolescence. 

And there he was, Draco Malfoy, dressed in dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a fitted waistcoat. As if he'd been there all along, staring at Harry with a kind of disdain he never expected. 

“Potter,” he drawled. “What brings you here?” 

“Business with Narcissa. I was just leaving.”

“You— ehem, of course. Good day.” 

As Harry watched, something flickered in those eyes and was gone. Whatever he might have said fled with it and he made his way to the door in silence. 

Chapter Thirteen 

Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Standing before the full length mirror in his rooms, he tried to reconcile the name with the man reflected back at him. The man, he recognised. The name was another story. He knew the story, knew the name, but the face, the body, wouldn’t yet accept it. 

Turning this way and that, Draco frowned. He tugged his hair free of its restraints, shrugged out of the soft dressing gown he wore, and picked up the hairbrush sitting on the bureau beside the mirror. As he brushed the night’s sleep from his hair, he studied himself; the long lines of his limbs, the narrow waist, sharp hip bones and flat stomach. He knew all of it well, but nothing said “this is Draco Malfoy.” At least, not in so many words.

His eyes, he had come to understand, were a Black family trait. Narcissa and Sirius both had similar eyes. And Lucius and Narcissa had clearly contributed their hair. Even the lines of his face reflected those of his mother’s sharp cheekbones and narrow jaw. With memories trickling back, he didn’t doubt he was Draco, he simply hadn’t acclimated, yet. He would, he was sure.

Sighing, he replaced the brush, glancing back over his shoulder as he moved to retrieve his clothing. Narcissa had already herded him back to the wizarding district of Paris, buying everything she deemed he’d need, including an entire wardrobe, countless books, and his very own wand. Hawthorn, ten inches, with a core of unicorn hair. The wand was something of an oddity, the shopkeeper had informed him. It was made by Olivander in England, and was one of the only five he had ever shipped overseas to find its wizard. Because, of course, the wand chooses the wizard.

That made the wand special, in and of itself, but Draco would have treated it as if it was the most precious object in the world, regardless. Because it was. It was evidence of the part of himself he never would have imagined when he was growing up. He was special in the same way the wand was; which was to say, special but not nearly the only one. But it didn’t matter because, even if others shared it, this gift was his.

Dressed, Draco turned back to the mirror, his wand held delicately in his left hand. Focused on the mirror, he stared himself down, lifted the wand, and cast.

“Lumos!” he cried, delighted when the tip of his wand glowed dimly in the well lit room. Catching his eye in the reflection, he laughed at the childlike wonder splashed across his face, then turned and left his rooms, tucking the wand up his sleeve as he went.

The foolishness of the moment wasn’t lost on him. He felt like a child when it came to magic. There was so much to learn, so much he could do, with a bit of training. And Narcissa had already written to Headmaster Dumbledore at Hogwarts asking for guidance in beginning his formal education. It wasn’t exactly the kind of university he used to envision.

But that seemed to be the case with everything. His search for his past had produced a much different scenario than he could have imagined. His mother was amazing—and formidable, he’d been told—but the time for mothering had passed, for both of them. His childhood dreams of a mother who held him when he cried, who kissed him goodnight, who read to him, may never again become a reality. But the reality was a woman who spent ten long years searching for him, never giving up hope that he’d be found. Even when others had.

His thoughts shifted then, a bitterness hanging over them for how horribly wrong falling in love had gone. Part of him, a spiteful, angry part, wanted to deny he’d been—was—in love, but there was no denying the emptiness he felt, the hole left by the man he thought he’d come to know. Harry was everywhere, in everything he did, etched into him by the very purpose of their meeting. It didn’t help that the blasted house elf, Dobby, spoke of him like he was some kind of folk hero. Nor that he had apparently lived in the villa from time to time—frequent enough that he had his own rooms down the corridor from Draco’s.

Just knowing a part of the man was there gave him pause, and he longed to explore the room. To search for answers to questions he didn’t even know he had. But he refused, shoving the desire as deep as he could. He didn’t want to know, at least not then. Not when the wounds of his betrayal were still so fresh. 

“Draco,” Narcissa called, catching his attention. “What are you wearing?” 

He glanced down at the beige slacks and waistcoat, the dark shirt and shoes. “Is something wrong?” he asked. He thought he looked nice. 

Narcissa smiled fondly, if a bit bemused. “Not at all. You look fine, for any other day. Didn't Dobby set out your dress robes for this evening?” 

Ah, yes. The ball. “He did,” he assured her. “I planned to get ready a little later in the day.”

“Of course, of course. I'm sorry, I just—” Her eyes took on a dreamlike quality, soft and smokey. “I was remembering when you were a boy. You loved your dress robes. It was all I could do to keep you from wearing them every day. But you're a man, now, and men are practical.”

“I'm sorry,” was all he could think to say. They'd lost so much, and he couldn't do anything to bring it back. 

"So am I, darling. Never mind. We have now and it's more than I could ask." Smiling gently, she reached out to run a hand through Draco's hair and down one cheek. 

Okay, maybe they still had room for mothering, he thought, catching her wrist to hold her hand against his skin a moment longer. 

"Do you really think this will work? What if—" 

"We have to try. Not to worry: you will be perfectly safe. We are not making the same mistake twice. Now, why don't you go Floo Harry and invite him?" 

Draco gave an inelegant snort. "Even if I knew how, why on earth would I do that?" 

Narcissa eyed him, setting her features into a stern expression. "Then send an owl. We aren't going to make the same mistake twice."

"And what mistake would I be repeating if I don't?" he asked, petulance oozing from every pore. 

"Letting Harry Potter walk away."

-

_ You are cordially invited… _

Harry replayed the words of the letter over in his mind, reminding himself that Draco had penned and sent the letter himself. For better or worse, he was welcome at this event by the only person who mattered. 

Of course, that didn't stop him from feeling completely out of place. For all of his lavish upbringing at the hands of Narcissa Malfoy, he hadn't attended a ball since his fourth year at Hogwarts, and that hardly counted. 

Because the season called for it, he wore a set of pale green dress robes, deeper accents offsetting the whole, and had pulled the choppy length of his hair into a tight bun at the back of his skull. It was all he could do not to fiddle with the hem of his sleeves as he made his way slowly around the perimeter of the ballroom. 

He had yet to spot Draco, so took the time he had to observe the guests, the Auror detail, and ensure he was comfortable with Narcissa's choices. Frankly, he wasn't. There were plenty of magical law enforcement agents stationed around the room, but the number of guests was overwhelming. How would they protect Draco if the need arose? 

It may be moot, anyway, as he'd still yet to spot Draco among the crowded guests, and he wasn't seated at the head of the ballroom with Narcissa. As he watched, she turned her head enough to notice him, smiled knowingly. When she lifted her hand in greeting, he turned away. 

And there was Draco, cream and silver brocade robes falling to whisper along the tiles beneath him as he spun a young woman away and back in time with the surrounding dancers. The tempo kicked up a notch and Draco caught his eye briefly before turning back to his dance partner and laughing delightedly. 

Harry frowned. He was going to need a drink. 

A quick stop for a tumbler of firewhiskey and he set about patrolling the perimeter of the ballroom. He paused here and there to exchange pleasantries with a few of the Aurors on duty, those he knew from training and a few he'd heard stories of and hoped to know as time went by. 

Halfway through his second rotation, a familiar head of red hair caught his attention as Ron waded through the sea of guests. 

"Harry!" he shouted, clapping a hand to Harry's shoulder. "You came! I wasn't sure you would."

"Yeah, well, I got an invitation."

"Of course you did!" 

Harry chuckled darkly. "Today. I got an invitation today." 

"Oh. Well, better late than never, right?" 

"Right. Narcissa almost certainly convinced him to do it, that hardly counts."

"You sure? Draven—Draco I mean. Fuck, this is difficult—Draco seemed pretty keen to find you. That's why I came looking. I almost didn't believe him when he said you were here."

"Ron," a voice called out, followed quickly by Hermione's bushy mane, left loose to halo her head. "Did you find him? Oh. Hi Harry. Draco, he's right here."

Before Harry could protest, she was dragging Draco the rest of the way through the crowd by one narrow wrist. With that, Ron and Hermione melted back into the throng of people and were gone, leaving the two to stand awkwardly close, uncomfortably quiet. 

"Draco, I—"

"Listen Harry—" 

Frustrated, Harry scrubbed at the back of his neck, avoiding looking directly at Draco. "I need some air."

"Shall we go outside? The courtyard is lovely." His voice was strained, belying the welcoming words. Apparently, they had to talk. 

"Yeah, okay." 

Without waiting, Harry turned toward the nearest doors and marched through. 

Chapter 14

It took more than Draco had to keep his eyes from straying downward as he followed Harry into the courtyard, though he was able to stifle the groan when he found the view far more alluring than should be allowed. Harry's dress robes accentuated his waist and the curve of his arse better than one might expect of a glorified dress. 

Swallowing around a suddenly dry throat, Draco dragged his eyes away just as Harry turned. "Well?" he asked, emerald eyes glass sharp, jaw clenched tight. "You want to talk, I assume. So, talk."

Draco swallowed again. Harry wasn't going to make this easy for him. He'd already spent the majority of the day considering what he knew, the truths and falsehoods that made up his ire, and decided he may have overreacted. Saying so was going to be a much more difficult process. 

"Well, you see," he began, then lost his nerve. "I did want to talk, yes. I've, er… I've given it some thought and I, well, I  _ may  _ have— for God's sake, can you please stop looking at me like that?" 

"Like what?" Harry frowned. "Like you're not making a bit of sense and I'm confused?" 

"Like— like that!" he gestured wildly with his hands, the movement encompassing the entirety of Harry's face, and Harry laughed—laughed! 

Catching Draco's hands at the wrist, Harry stilled the flailing, lowered his arms, and leaned close. "Just talk, Draco."

"I told you not to—" Draco stilled, bit his tongue. He was Draco, there was no logical reason Harry couldn't call him by his name. He sighed and slumped forward. "I miss you, Potter," he finally admitted and Harry's hands tightened briefly over his wrists. "Merlin help me, I miss you. And I… I may have overreacted that night."

"No," Harry squawked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "No, you were right. I couldn't see what I was doing, I was just so determined to prove you weren't, you know, you. I convinced myself that it wouldn't matter what I did, Narcissa would see it too and it would be over. I never imagined—" 

"I don't think any of us did," Draco assured him. Turning his hands, he closed them around Harry's, squeezed. "We were all so caught up in what we were doing, we didn't stop to think what it would mean."

"And what does it mean?" 

"Nothing!" he answered immediately, then sighed. "Everything. It means I fell in love with my best friend and then pushed him away."

"Love?"

Draco smiled at the tentative hope shining from Harry's eyes and lifted a hand to his cheek. "Love. I tried to tell myself it didn't happen, or that it didn't matter, but it does. You matter so much to me."

Harry pitched forward a fraction, like his feet were already trying to close the distance between them. "Say it?" he whispered. 

"Say it?" Draco asked, then, "Oh!" Grinning, he stepped closer, looked up into Harry's eyes and the emotion swirling there. "I love you, Harry Pot—" 

Before he could finish the words, Harry's lips were on his, his arms around Draco's waist and lifting him nearly off the cobblestones. Draco met him with equal force, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders and pressing himself as close as he could manage. The air around them shifted, wind picking up speed and whipping their hair free of the bands that held them. 

And still they kissed, unaware of anything but each other until screeching laughter filtered through the haze and wind. 

"Isn't that cute?" a maniacal voice sing-songed. "Did ickle-Dwaco find twoo wuv?" 

"That voice," Draco murmured while Harry tightened his arms around him. "I know that voice."

The woman appeared then, striding into view, the wind whipping her tangled hair and tattered robes around her, wand arm stuck out at a macabre angle. 

"Bellatrix!" Harry shouted. "You're outnumbered. Turn yourself in!"

"Two measly little wizardlings? I should be afraid of you?" 

"You should be afraid of the scores of Aurors here," he corrected. 

Draco couldn't help himself, he shrank against Harry, seeking comfort and shelter. "That face…"

"They can't hear us, darling," she scoffed, waving a hand before her face as she stumbled drunkenly toward them. "Wouldn't want any interruptions."

"'Course not," Harry called. As he spoke, he shifted to reach for his wand, glancing to and fro. "Can't exactly take them this time, can you? All by yourself, I take it?" 

She snarled at that, lunging forward as Harry brought his wand up to strike, but Draco was faster. 

" _ Protego _ !" he cried, his wand barely poking out of the enormous belled sleeves of his robes. But he'd given Harry the time he needed. 

Pushing Draco behind himself, Harry too aimed and cast. " _ Expecto Patronum _ !" While Draco's shield held, he gave the glowing stag his message and sent it into the ballroom to alert the Aurors, then turned back to Bellatrix. " _ Expelliarmus _ !" he shouted, then swore when she dodged it. 

"You'll never win, boy!" Bellatrix cried. "You're too weak!  _ Crucio _ !" 

" _ Protego _ !" With his own shield up, Harry turned to Draco. "Think you can manage a few more? If you maintain a shield, I can attack."

Draco nodded, gripping his wand tighter. "Hey, Harry?" 

"Yeah?" 

"If we live through this, remind me to thank you." He flashed a quick grin and winked before rising to his full height and positioning himself behind Harry. 

As one, they advanced, Draco's shield wavering only slightly as he defended himself and the man he loved. Harry threw curse after curse. In the constant barrage, a few connected and she fell time and again. But time and again, she rose, angrier, madder. 

"Don't you have anything that can kill her?" he cried moments before his shield failed. " _ Protego _ !" 

"Just the one," Harry panted. "And it's illegal."

" _ Stupefy _ !" another voice rang out and Draco's heart soared as teams of Aurors poured into the courtyard. 

"No!" Bellatrix shrieked, lifting her hands to pull at her own hair. "No!  _ Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada _ —" she barely took aim anymore, throwing curses blindly. 

Draco kept his own shield up as the Aurors made their way steadily closer. As they sent stunners her way. As she fell to a crumpled heap. As they carried her away. 

"Your Grace?" Harry's voice murmured near his ear. "It's okay, Draco. They've got her."

It was over. In truth, it had been over for several long minutes, but Draco finally took a deep breath, slumped against Harry, and sobbed 

-

_ December 20 1998 _

_ Dearest Mother,  _

_ Thank you for your letter, I'm pleased you're doing well. Harry says hello.  _

_ I can't tell you how excited I am, this is our first Christmas together! I'm sorry we won't be joining you in France, we want to keep this first to ourselves. Harry has been dismissed from training for the next two weeks, so we're going to decorate his house together.  _

_ Besides Christmas preparations, we're both well. Harry has been working nearly round the clock, which is awful. I can't even complain when he steals the blankets, the smug bastard is so tired.  _

_ My studies are coming along nicely. The professors at Hogwarts have been marvelously attentive, considering their workload. Professor Snape is… interesting. But brilliant! I greatly enjoy potions. I may even pursue a mastery after school.  _

_ I still can't wrap my head around some things, though. Professor Lupin, for instance. He's nothing like the Muggle world believes werewolves to be. And I'm struggling to understand why don't wizards, if we have this wonderful gift, help Muggles in the ways they can't help themselves?  _

_ Perhaps I'll find the answers one day. For now, Harry is insisting I join him for breakfast.  _

_ Love, Draco  _

_ P.S. I'll send your Christmas present in the next few days. I hope your holidays are magical.  _

Touched and more than a bit bemused, Narcissa placed the letter gently on her vanity and brushed a tear from her eye. Smiling at her reflection, she gave a nod. 

"The perfect beginning," she murmured, and sent a silent wish that all of her son's years would be as perfect as this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Remember, kudos are love and comments validate my existence! <3<3<3


End file.
